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POPUI^AR NOVELS 


BY MAY AGNES FLEMING. 


/ sw-OUy BARLSGOURTS WIPB. 
WONDERFUL WOMAN, 
f TERRIBLE SECRBT. 

^4--norine»s revenge. 

S.-.A MAD MARRIAGE. 

A-ONE NIGHT’S MYSTERV. 



U'V-HEIR of CHARLTON. 

.^k>.-CARRIED by STORMr 
If. -LOST FOR A WOMAN. 

M.-A WIFE’S TRAGEDY. 

13. -A CHANGED HEART. 

14. -PRIDE AND PASSION. 

15. -SHARING HER CRIME. 
lA— A WRONGED WIFE. 

17.-MAUDE PERCY’S SECRET. 
fA-THE ACTRESS’ DAUGHTER. 
ig.-THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE. 

*o.~THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN. ' 
ti.-EDITH PERCIVAL. 

«.-WEDDED FOR PIQUE. 

/ •3.-A FATEFUL ABDUCTION 
N 84.-THE SISTERS OF TORWOUD. - 
** Mrs. Fleming’s stories are growing more and more popular ct e ty 
day. Tbeir delineations of character, life-like conversatkms, dashes of 
wit, constantly vanring scenes, and deeply interesting plots, cnmbtoc 
to place tiieir author in the very first rank of Modem Novelists.” 


toand la doth. Price $1,00 each, aotf scat PRBE 
by atail oa receipt at price, by 


a W. OILLINQHAM COMPANY, PliMMieiW, 
NEW YORK. 


CARRIED BY STORM 

A8 PUBLISHED IN THE NEW YORK WEEKLY, VOL. 34, NO. 4 


3. Noocl. 

4 * * 


BY 

MAY AGNES FLEMING, 

II 

AUTHOR OP 

“QUY EARLSCODRT’S WIFE,” “A WONDERFUL WOMAN,’* 
‘‘A TERRIBLE SECRET,” “SILENT AND TRUE,” 

“ A MAD MARRIAGE,” “ LOST FOR A WOMAN,” 

“ ONE NIGHT’S MYSTERY,” ETC., ETC. 


** But they were young ; oh ! what, without our youth, 
Would love be? — what would youth be witnout love? 
Youth lends it joy and sweetness, vigor, truth, 

Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above.” 

: Byron’s j5ejs^o. 

> > 

* ) ) > 


NEW YORK : 

G, IV, Dillingham Co,y Publishers, 



^ USHARY of CONGRESS j 
Two Cowles Racelvad 


SEP 3 ISO? 



Copyright, 1878, by 
STREET & SMITH. ' 

Copyright, 1879, by 
G. W. CARLETON & CO. 

Copyright, 1906, by 
MAUDE A. FLEMING. 

Copyright. 1907, by 
MAUDE A. FLEMING. 


Carritd by Storm. 




CONTENTS. 


PART FIRST. 

OAP. VA»1 

L Which is Highly Sensational 7 

U. Which Begins at the Beginning 14 

HI How Little Olga gets Lost 20 

IV. A Wild Girl of the Woods 27 

V. Sleaford’s 32 

VI. A Deed of Darkness 41 

VII. Sleaford’s Joanna 47 

Vin. The Abbotts of Abbott Wood 54 

IX. The Misses Sleaford at Home 72 

X. Geoffrey Lamar 90 

XI. In which Mr. Abbott Asserts Himself 100 

XEL “Nobody’s Child” 114 

PART SECOND. 

L What the Tears Make of Joanna 125 

In which Joanna Enters Society 138 

In which Joanna Caps the Climax 154 

In which Joanna Runs Away 166 

In which Joanna Seeks her Fortune 182 

la which Joanna Finds her Fortune 104 




n OOWTEWTO. 

tauet. mm 

VIL The Tragedy at Sleaford's. 907 

VLLL Geoffrey Hears a Confession 917 

IX. A Long Journey 998 

X. Leo’s Ball 941 

XL After that Night 981 

PAKT THIRD. 

I. After the Story Ended 961 

n. After the Concert 273 

After Long Years 983 

“ Carried by Storm ” 293 

“Little Leo” 301 

“ Joan Bennett ” 819 

The Story 821 

How Joanna Came Back 881 

How Joanna Paid her Debt 846 

“ The Time of Roses ” 361 

How Joanna Said Good-by 

Wadding Bells. 887 


CARRIED BY STORM 


PART FIRST. 

CHAPTER L 

WHICH IS HIGHLY SExVSATIOWAL. 

OOK at it well,” says Miss Ventnor, ** it 
is what you have never seen before — 
what you may never see again — a 
Haunted House !” 

One slim, gloved hand, looking like a perfect hand 
in dark gray marble, points the dramatic speech. 
Miss Ventnor is given to dramatic and epigrammatic 
little speeches at all times, but as she is not given to 
talking nonsense at any time, I know there is “ method 
in the madness” of this assertion now. And yet — 
haunted house I I laugh a little, as I lean out froia the 
carriage to look. 

“Do not laugh,” says Miss Ventnor, austerely; 
“ there is nothing to laugh at. A dark and direful 
tragedy was enacted within the walls of that gloomy 
red farm-house — let me see — four — yes, nearly five 
years ago. Do you see that third window to the right, 
in the attic story ? Well, a man was murdered- 
ftabbed to death in that room.” 



m 


8 


WHICH IS HIGHLY SENSATIONAL. 


“Ugh ! how horrid !” I say, with a shudder. If 
■he had told me he had drowned himself, or poisoned 
himself, or charcoaled himself, a la Fran^ais, or even 
hanged himself, or gone out of time into eternity by 
any one of those other violent but unbloody gates, hei 
tragedy would have lost its most grisly element. But 
the average female mind shrinks in repulsion from the 
thought of a severed jugular or a pool of blood. 

“And ever since the house has been haunted, of 
course,” says Miss Ventnor, folding one gray kid 
calmly over the other. “ It is a good house and a 
fine farm, and sin^e Sleaford’s time — Sleaford was the 
victim — the rent has been merely nominal. All in vain. 
Sleaford ‘ walks,’ and in the ‘ dead waste and middle 
of the night ’ the struggle is re-enacted, and panic- 
stricken, belated wayfarers fly. It is all nonsense, of 
course,” says Miss Ventnor, changing suddenly from 
a Siddons’ voice to a practical, every-day one. “ Slea- 
ford, poor wretch, lies over yonder in Potter’s Field 
and troubles nobody. But the fact remains that peo- 
ple will not live in the place, and the most audacious 
tramp and thief will give the peach trees and melon 
patches of Sleaford’s a wide berth, be he never so 
hungry. And — I do not mind admitting that even 1 
would go half a dozen miles roundabout rather than 
pass it alone after nightfall So take a good look at 
It, my dear, a bona fide haunted house is a sight to 
be respected and remembered, if only for its rarity in 
this degenerate age. And this evening, after dinner, 
I will tell you all about it.” 

I do not need the injunction -I am taking a good 
look at Sleaford’s ! Even without Miss Ventnor’s 
ghastly legend the place could hardly fail to impress 


WHICH Id niHHLr t ATIOHAli. 


9 , 


one in a weird and dismal way. But just now the miw 
en ycene is in keeping with the story. A gray, last- 
drifting autumnal sky, lying low, and tnreatening 
rain ; a chill, complaining, fitful wind, rising and fall- 
ing over the rich rank marshes ; a long stretch of flat 
farm land, sear and brown, corn-stalks rattling their 
melancholy dry bones, the orchard trees stripped and 
forlorn. In the midst the house, long, low, a dull 
brick-color, broken panes in the windows, broken 
fences around, no dog at the gate, no face at the case- 
ment, no smoke from the chimneys, no voice to wel- 
come or warn away. Desolation has lain her lean 
brown hand upon it, and marked her own. Anything 
more forlorn, more ‘‘ ramshackle,” more forbidding, no 
fancy can picture. And from being a deserted house, 
no matter what the cause, from ghosts to bedbugs, to 
being a haunted house, there is but a step. 

“There it stands,” says Miss Ventnor, musingly, 
her elbow on her knee, her pretty chin in her hand^ 

“ * Under some prodigious tan, 

Of excommunication ’ 

and yet I can remember when Sleaford’s wai the 
rendezvous of all that was youngest, loudest, merriest, 
in a radius of twenty miles — the ‘jolliest old roost 
going,’ as poor Frank Livingston used to tell me. 
The Sleaford girls were the handsomest, reddest- 
cheeked, blackest-eyed, loudest-laughing gypsies to 
be seen for a mile. There were two of them, as much 
alike as peas in a pod, as round and rosy as twin 
tomatoes. There were the two Sleaford boys, tall, 
strapping fellow^ with more of the wild gypsy strain 
even than their sisters, the best dancers, wrestlers, 


IB wnmi IS SmSATK»rA&, 


rowers, singers, fighters, everything but the best farm 
erg — they never worked. There was Giles Sleaford 
himself, who went up to that attic room one moon^ 
light night, a strong, stalwart man, anJ was carried 
down next morning — an awful spectacle. And last of 
all there was — Joanna.” 

Miss Ventnor’s voice takes a sudden change as it 
slowly — reluctantly, it seems — pronounces this name, 
a touch of strong repulsion it has not had even when 
telling the story of Sleaford’s grisly death. She sits 
suddenly erect as she utters it, and gathers up the 
reins. 

“ Let us go,” she says, with a shiver ; “ it is a 
horrible place, haunted by evil memories if by nothing 
more tangible. It is growing cold, too. Do not look 
at it any more — it is uncanny. You will dream of 
Sleaford’s to-night.” 

“ Wait !” I say ; lOok there !” 

I speak in a whisper, and lay my hand on her 
irm. Miss Ventnor bends forward. Over the broken 
pickets of the fence the solitary figure cf a man leans, 
bis arms folded across the top, his eyes fixed stead- 
fastly on the house. A moment ago he was not there ; 
we have not seen him approach ; the apparition could 
not have been more unexpected if he had risen from 
the ground. 

“Ah!” Miss Ventnor says, a half-startled look 
coming into her eyes, “ I did not know he was here. 
That is the one man of all the men on earth who 
could throw light on part of the Sleaford mystery — 
If he chose.” 

“ And he does not choose ?” 

“He does not choose — I doubt if he ever wil. 


wman is highly ^ensatiohal. 


11 


ehoose. I wonder— I wonder what he has done with 
her 1” 

“With her? with whom? One of the black 
eyed, tomato-cheeked Misses Sleaford ?” 

“Misses Sleaford?” contemptuously. “No, Jo- 
anna. That is her window he is looking at — the attic 
room next to the chamber of horrors. I wonder what 
he has done with her,” says Miss Ventnor, speaking 
to herself ; “ it must have been worse than having 
a white elephant on his hands. That is George 
Blake.” 

“ George Blake ! H-m ! a commonplace cogno- 
men enough for the hero of a melodrama. Do I 
understand you to say this Mr. Blake eloped with 
Mile. Joanna?” 

“No; Joanna eloped with him. He was the vic- 
tim. Never mii>d now. I am cold, and I want my 
dinner. I am going home. Get along. Frisky.” 

Frisky pricks up his ears, tosses his brown mane, 
and gets along. The sound pierces through Mr. 
Blake’s brown study ; he turns sharply and sees Miss 
Ventnor. She inclines her head, he lifts his hat — a 
moment, and we are out of sight. In that moment I 
have caught a glimpse of a sallow and rather hand- 
some face, a slight and medium-sized figure, two dark 
eyes, and a brown mustache. 

“ A very commonplace young man to be the first 
lover in a melodrama,” I reiterate. “Is — ah — your 
Mr. Blake a gent leman, Olga ?” 

“My Mr. Blake!” repeats Miss Ventnor, laugh- 
ing ; “ well, you w'Quldn’t know much difference. He 
is a newspaper man, a journalist, a penny-a-liner, works 
on daily papers — is clever, they say, and has good 


12 WSIOU IS HIGHLY SjSNSJTIOHAL. 


manners. A thousand times too good to have nis life 
spoiled by a woman.” 

“ My dear, that is the only thing of interest about 
him, the leaven that lightens the whole man. There 
Is always the element of the heroic in a man whose 
life has been spoiled by a woman — if there is any- 
thing in him it is sure to force it out. And men beai 
it so well, too I I dare say Mr. George Blake eats his 
three meals per diem with as Christian a relish, and 
writes twice as pungent paragraphs as before. Was 
Joanna pretty ? Quaint little ugly name, by-the-bye 
— Joanna.” 

Olga Ventnor does not reply. At last she lowers 
the reins and looks at me. 

‘‘ Do you believe,” she asks, “ in people being pos- 
sessed ?” 

“ Good gracious !” I cry, aghast. 

It is the second startling speech within the hour, 
and really this last is quite too horrid. 

‘‘Because,” says Miss Ventnor, trenchantly, “if 
ever any human being was possessed of a demon J o- 
anna was ! Now, do not ask any questions, for here 
we are, and thumbscrews would not extort anothei 
syllable from me until I have had my d.nner.” 

* * * * * nf 

The threatening rain begins to fall with the falling 
darkness. It is beating sharply against the panes as 
we descend to the dining-room half an hour later. 
But plate-glass and crimson curtains shut out wind, 
and rain, and night ; a fire burns in the shining grate* 
the gas-lights in their ground-glass lily-cups flood the 
deep red carpet, the gilt picture-frames, the polished 
mahogany « deboard, the sparkling crystal, and rough 


WHICH Ifl HIGHLY 3EK8AT10KAL. 


IS 


old silver of the dinner service. And Miss Ventnor, 
in dark-blue silk, with a good deal of black lace ab Ht 
it, and a sweet-smelling crimson rose in her hair, 
quite an ideal hostess. But all through soup and 
salmon, roast and entrees^ jellies and pastry, iced pud- 
ding and peaches, and black coffee, I think of the 
Sleafords and the gloomy red farm-house, the awful 
upper chamber, the tomato-faced maidens, the gypsy 
sons, the mysterious Joanna, and the lonely figure 
of Mr. George Blake, leaning with folded arms 
on the broken rails, and gazing at the lattice of the 
young woman who had eloped with him. Does Mr. 
Blake prefer coming back here, and sentimentalizing 
over four greenish panes of glass to gazing on the 
charms of Mistress Joanna in the flesh ? 

After dinner, with slippers on the fender, the ruby 
shine of the fire on her trailing azure silk and fine 
laces, and red rose and pretty fair hair, Olga tells me 
the story of the Sleafords. 

Outside there is the accompaniment of fast-falling 
rain, dully-sighing wind, wetness, blackness, night. I 
set it down here in different words, and much more 
than Miss Ventnor told me, much more than she knew 
herself that memorable night. Bit by bit the strange 
affair has come to light, and to the knowledge of those 
interested therein, among whom no one is, or has been, * 
more vividly interested than myself. If I do not 
carry you away as I was carried away that evening, it 
is because pen, ink, and paper do not constitute a 
handsome young lady in silk attire, with sweet, clear 
voice, sweet, shining eyes, and a story-telling talent 
that would have done honor to one of those improper 
eteatures in the Decameron, who told tales by meoih 


!4 WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 

Xght in the garden of Boccaccio to tlie listening 
Florentines. This, in way, and with additions, is 
the story Olga Ventnor told me that wet Ootobei 
night — the tragic story of the Sleafords. 


CHAPTER II. 

WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEGINNING. 

HE village of Brightbrook ! You do not 
know it, perhaps, and yet it is not unknowij 
to fame or fashion in the heated months — 
but it was both, twenty odd years ago, 
when Olga Ventnor first set her blue, bright eyes upon 
it. A slim lassie, an only child, an heiress, a dainty, 
upright, fair-haired fairy, all Swiss muslin, Valencien- 
nes lace, Hamburg embroideries, many tucks, and 
much ruffling. Straight as a dart, white as a lily — a 
delicate little aristocrat, from the crown of her golden 
head to the sole of her sandaled foot ; idolized by 
papa, adored by mamma, paid court to by friends, 
relatives, playmates, teachers, servants, village folk — a 
small princess, by royal right of beauty, birth, wealth. 
That is a correct picture of Miss Olga Ventnor, catcU 
ten. 

And yet, in spite of all, of spoiling and flattery 
enough to ruin an army of innocents, she was a charm- 
ing child, simple and natural, with a laugh all wild 
and free, pretty childish ways, full of flawless health 
and rosy life. It was for her sake — the apple of his 
eye, and the pride of his life — that Colonel Ventnoi 



WmCflT BEGINS VT THE BEGINNING. 15 


resigned Swiss mountains, Lake Como sunsets, asienta 
of Vesuvius, Texan plains on fleet mustangs, yachting 
adofin the picturesque coast of Maine, camping out on 
the Adirondacks, mountain trout baked in cream, and 
all the other delights of his existence, and built this 
pretty villa in Brightbrook, and came down here 
in the month of roses, with eight ‘‘in help,” and a 
pretty, pallid, invalid wife — foreswore all wild, wan- 
dering ways forever, so that little Olga might run 
wild among the clover and buttercups, and from much 
fresh air, and sweet milk, and strawberries picked with 
her own taper fingers, grow up to blooming health and 
maidenhood. 

Colonel Yentnor — he had served with distinction 
in the far West — was a very rich man, and the 
descendant of a family of very rich men. Such a 
thing as a poor Yentnor perhaps had never been heard 
of. They were wealthy always, high-bred always, 
holding enviable positions under government always, 
n«ver defiling their patrician fingers with trade or 
commerce of any kind, and, in a general way, consid- 
ering their status and superiority to all earthly pur- 
suits, with quite as many brains as was good for them. 
Of these mighty men. Colonel Raymond Livingston 
Yentnor was the last, and little Olga, in her Swiss 
tucks and Leghorn sun-hat, the very last daughter of 
the house, born, if ever embryo belle and heiress was 
yet, with a golden spoon in her mouth. 

“We must marry her to Frank Livingston in about 
ten years from now,” said the family conclave, “and 
fto keep everything in the family. Pity she is not a 
boy— too bad to sink the Yentnor for Livingston— 


16 WHICH BEGINS AT THE BEOINNINO, 


but Frank can add the old name by and by, when b€ 
marries Olga.” 

Perhaps this imperial ukase was not read in form 
to the bride-elect, but it met the approval of papa and 
mamma, and certainly was announced to the future 
bridegroom, a slim, very pretty young fellow of 
eighteen or so, with a passion for base-ball, and another 
for pencil drawing. He was really a bright lad, and 
at this age quite a wonder to see in the way of tall- 
ness, and slimness, and straightness. And he only 
grinned when his fond mamma folded him with effu- 
sion in her arms, and announced, with joyful tears, . 
that he — he — her Francis — her darling boy, and not 
Anselm Van Dyack, nor Philip Yandewelode, had 
been chosen for the distinguished position of prince 
consort to the heiress of many Ventnors. 

“ And you need never lower your family, nor slave 
yourself to death painting pictures now, my dearest, 
dearest boy ! Olga Ventnor’s fortune must be simply 
immense — imhbksx !” 

“ All right, mother,” says Frank, still grinning ; 
** and when is it to be — this week or next ? Or am I 
to wait until she grows up ? I am on hand always ; 
when you want me please to ring the bell.” 

“ Frank, this is no theme for jesting. They will 
not permit it for at least ten years. Say her educa- 
tion is finished at eighteen, then two years of travel, 
then the wedding. Meantime, whenever you see little 
Olga be just as nice as possible — impressions made at 
her age often last through life.” 

Frank throws back his head, and laughs immoder- 
ately. “Did I ever dream ip my wildest dime novel 
days it would come to this? Did I ever think that, 


WHICfH BEQXKS AT THE BEO1NHIN0. 17 


like Dick Swiveller, I would have a young woman 
growing up for me? Don’t wear that face, mother, or 
you will be the death of me. I’ll run down to Bright* 
brook next week, if you like, and do a little stroke of 
courting, and hunt butterflies with the little dear until 
the end of July.” 

So Frank runs down, and is made welcome at the 
pretty white villa, all embowered in pink roses and 
scented honeysuckle, like a cottage in a picture, and 
by none more gladly than little Olga. All that mere 
money can buy is hers ; but even money has its limits 
as to power, and it cannot buy her a playmate and 
constant companion of her own age. The child is 
a little lonely, surrounded by love and splendor. 
Brother or sister she has never had, mamma is always 
ailing and lying on the sofa, papa is away a great 
deal, Jeannette, the honne^ is lazy and stupid, and says 
it is too hot to play, and in all Brightbrook there is no 
one this dainty, little curled darling may stoop to 
romp with. Yes, by-the-bye, there is one, just one, of 
whom more anon, but she is not always available. So 
the little princess, forgetting the repose which marks 
the caste of Vere de Vere, utters a scream of joy at 
sight of Cousin Frank, and flings herself absolutely 
plump into his arms. 

Oh ! I am so glad 1” she cries out. “ Oh I Frank, 
how nice of you to come. I’ve been wanting you every 
day of my life since we came down heie— oh, ever and 
ever so I Mamma, you know I’ve been wanting Cousin 
Frank.” 

Mamma smiles. Frank lifts the little white-robed, 
golden-haired, rose-cheeked vision up higher than his 
head, kisses her, and with her perched on tis shoulder 

2 


18 WHIOH Bmtm AT TMK 


and shrieking with delight, starts off for the first game 
©f romps. It is all as it should bo. Mrs. Colonel 
Ventnor settles her muslins and laces, lies back in her 
blue satin chair, and resumes her book, very well 
pleased. 

Frank’s one week lasts well on into September. 
Brightbrook abounds in cool hill-side streams and 
tarns, from which it takes its name, and these spark- 
ling waters abound, in turn, with fine trout. Fishing 
is dreamy, lazy, insouciant sort of work, suited to 
sleepy, artistic fancies, and the young fellow spends a 
good deal of his time armed with rod and line and 
^uncli-basket, and waited upon dutifully by his de- 
v^oted little hand-maiden. Princess Olga. All the 
world adores her, she in turn adores Frank. He is 
the handsomest, the cleverest, the dearest cousin in all 
the world. He paints her picture, he bear- her aloft 
in triumph on his shoulder, he sings her German 
drinking songs, be teaches her to bait her hook and 
catch fish, he takes her for long rambles in the woods, 
he instructs her in the art of waltzing, he tells her 
the most wonderful goblin tales ever human brains 
invented. 

And all this without a jot of reference to his 
mother’s romance of the future. TTiat he laughs at — 
simply because she is the prettiest little darling in the 
world, and he is fond of children. Marry her in ten 
years — ten years, forsooth I Why not say half a 
century at once, and have done with it ? He is seven- 
teen — ten years looks a long perspective, a little 
forever, to eyes seventeen years old. 

October comes. With the first bleak blast and 
whistling drift of maple leaves, these birds of summer 


WHICH BEGINS AT TH5 BEGINNING. 19 


foisake their fragile nest, and flutter back to the 
stately family home of the Ventnors on Madison 
avenue. The pretty white villa, with its roses, and 
verandas, and conservatories, and sun-dial, is shut up, 
and only an old man and his daughter left to care for 
it until the next June honeysuckles blow. 

Little Olga goes back to her books and her piano, 
under an all-accomplished governess ; Frank goes in 
for painting, and takes a trip to the everglades of 
Florida. Early next summer the Ventnor family re- 
turn, making a mighty stir throughout Brightbrook, 
and in due course down comes Mr. Frank. 

A year has made its mark on this young man. 
His fine tenor voice is changing to an ugly bass, a 
callow down is forming on his upper lip, and is loved 
and caressed as a youthful mother may her first-born 
babe. He is absent a great deal from the cottage, and 
he very seldom takes Olga with him anywhere now. 

Nobody knows where he spends his time. Olga is 
the only one who inquires ; Olga, piqued and pouting, 
yet too proud even at eleven to let him see how much 
she cares. 

“ Where have you been nc/m she will ask. 

“ Oh, up the village !” 

It is his invariable answer, and it being a dull little 
village, and Mr. Francis of a lively turn, and fond of life, 
even rough and rollicking life, it is a kttle puzzling. 
Olga does not like it at all — he is not nearly so nice as 
on the preceding year, he leaves her to Jeannette and 
mamma, and amuses himself very well witnout her. 
The absences grow more frequent and prolonged. He 
stays away whole days, and his latch-key opens the 
hall’door gently far into the dim watches of the night 


20 


HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 


Lying awake, looking at the summer moonlight stea! 
ing whitely in, the child will hear that cautious click, 
that light footstep passing the door, and presently the 
little Swiss clock on the mantel will chime out, silvery 
and sharp, two or three. Three in the morning, and 
up at the village ! It is odd. But presently the mys- 
tery is solved for Olga in quite a sudden and awful 
way. 


CHAPTER HI. 

HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 

Frank !” 

tiere is no reply. Stretched on the 
ieeped grass, his straw hat pulled 
his face, his long length casting a 
prodigious shadow in the afternoon sunshine. Cousin 
Frank is leagues away in the lovely land of dreams. 

‘‘ Frank ! Cousin Frank I Frank Livingston I Oh, 
dear!” sighs Olga, impatiently. “No wonder he is 
asleep. It struck three this morning before — Frank ! 
Oh ! how stupid you are ! Do, do wake up !” 

Thus adjured, and further urged by the pointed 
toe of a most Cinderella-like shoe of blue kid, Frank 
consents to slowly and lazily open his handsome blue 
eyes. 

“Ob !” she says, with a pout, “at last ! You are 
worse tlkan the Seven Sleepers. Here you have been 
fast asleep for the past two hours, and all that tire- 
some time I have been waiting here. I think it is 
horrid of you, Frank Livingst,^n, to act so 1” 



HOW LITTLE OLGA GET8 LOST. 


91 


" To act so I To act how, fairest of fairy cousins ? 
What has your Frank, the most abject of thy slaves, 
Lady Olga, been doing now, to evoke your frown f 
There is no harm in taking a snooze on the grass, 
there ?” says Frank, with a prolonged yawn. 

Miss Olga stands beside him, slim, straight, white, 
blonde, pouting, and very, very pretty. 

“ There is harm in never coming home until haif- 
past thiee in the morning every night. If you didn’t 
do that you wouldn’t sleep on the grass all the next 
afternoon. What would mamma say ?” 

He rises suddenly on his elbow and looks at her. 
Pretty well this, for a demoiselle of eleven ! She 
stands rolling the gravel with one blue boot-tip, her 
wide-brimmed leghorn shading her face, the long, 
almost flaxen ringlets falling to her slender waist, her 
delicate lips pouting, the light figure upright as a dart. 

“ Princess Olga,” Frank says, after a pause and a 
stare, “what an uncommonly pretty little thing you 
are getting to be ! I must make a sketch of you just 
as you stand ; that sunshine on your yellow curls and 
white dress is capital ! Do not stir, please, my sketch^ 
book is here ; I wil dash you off in all your iovelinesa 
in the twinkling of a bed-post !” 

Frank’s sketch-book and Frank himself are never 
far apart. He takes it up now, as it lies at his elbow, 
selects a fair and unspotted page, points a broad black 
pencil, and begins. 

“Just as you are — do not move. ‘Just as I am, 
and waiting not, to rid myself of one — some sort of 
blot,’ — how is it the hymn goes ? And so you heard 
me come in last night ? Now who would think aucb 
pretty Httle pink ears could be so sharp 1” 


HOW LITTLE OLOJ^OEXS LOST. 


*<Last night!” pouts Olga, “this rnomi^, yos 
mean. Half-past three. I heard the dock strika.” 

“Don’t believe the dock — ^it is a foul sknderer. 
Ihose little jeweled jimcracks that play tunes before 
they strike always tell hea Did you tell mamma about 
it this morning, Oily ? ” 

She dings back her head, and her blue eyes — ^veiy 
like Frank’s own — ^kindla 

“ Tell mamma I I am not a tell-tale^ Cousin 
Frank.” 

The young fsDow, sketching busily, draws a breath 
of rehel 

“ Most gracious princess, you are a little trump. I 
ask pardon. Turn your head just a hair-breadth this 
way. Ah! thanks — that will do. Well, now, Olga, 1 
um out rather late ; but I met some — some fellows, and 

we played a game or two, and so ” 

the village 

**Tes, up the village. You see, Brightbrook is such 
a deadly-lively sort of place at the best, and a fellow 
must amuse himself a little in some way. And that 
reminds me — I have an engagement at five. What’s 
the time, Oily? just look at my watch, will you? ** 

She obeys after a moment — a moment in which 
wistful longing and precocious pride struggle for 
mastery. Then she stoops and looks. 

“A quarter of five. But you sai d — — ” 

A pause. 

“Well, I said 

“You said — you promised Leo Abbott yesterday 
tiiat you would di ive me over there this afternoon, and 
we would have croquet and tea.” 

“ Oh, did I ? ” c&rel(.e»ly. “ Well, you must let mt 


HOW LITTLE OLOA GETS LOST. ^3 

oflp, oily, and make my excuses to little Leo. Upon 
my honor, I cannot manage it — awfully sorry all the 
same. But it need not keep you, you know ; your 
papa will drive you, or Peters will.” 

Peters is head coachman, the safest of charioteers. 
Papa is always willing to drive his darling anywhere. 
But Olga Ventnor turns hastily away, and the childish 
gyes that look at the setting sun are full of tears she 
18 too proud to let fall. 

“There !” Frank says, after five minutes more de* 
voted to the sketch ; “ there you are, as large as life, 
but not half so handsome. Here it is for a keepsake, 
Olga. When you are a tall, fascinating young lady 
-‘-a brilliant belle, and all that — it will help to re- 
mind you of how you looked when a chickabiddy of 
eleven.” 

He tears out the leaf, scrawls under it, “ Princess 
Olga, with the love of the most loyal of her lieges,” 
and hands it to her. She takes it, her lips a little 
compressed, pique, pain in her eyes, plainly enough in 
spite of her pride, if he cares to look. But Frank has 
a happy knack of never looking, nor wishing to look, 
below the surface" of things, and he has something to 
think of besides his little cousin’s whims just at 
present. 

“I am off,” he says, jumping up. “And — look 
here. Oily — go to sleep like a good little thing when 
you go to bed, and don’t lie awake o’ nights in this 
wicked way counting the clock. It will bring gray 
hairs and wrinkles before you reach your twelfth 
birthday. You will wake up some morning and find, 
like Marie Antoinette, all these long curls turned froK 
gold to silver in a smgle night.” 


94 


H©Vf LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 


He pulls out one of the lo«g tresses, fine as float 
silk, to an absurd length, as he speaks. 

“And besides, I am going to reform, to turn over 
a new leaf, numbers of new leaves, to become a good 
boy, and go to bed at ten. So say nothing to nobody, 
Oily, and, above all, above everything, shut those blue 
peepers the moment your head is on the pillow, and 
never open them, nor the dear little pink ears, until six 
the next morning.” 

He gives the pink ear an affectionate and half- 
anxious tweak, smiles at the grave face of the child, 
flings his hat on, and departs. 

The little girl stands watching him until he is out 
of sight, then, with a deep sigh that would have in- 
finitely amused Master Frank could he have heard 
turns for consolation to the drawing. Is she really so 
pretty as this ? How clever Cousin Frank must be to 
sketch so — dash off things, as he calls it — all in a 
moment. She has it yet, yellow, faded, stored away 
among the souvenirs treasured most. 

“ Madame votre mere says will mademoiselle not 
come for one leetle walk before her supper ?” says the 
high Norman sing-song voice of Jeannette, appearing 
from the house ; “ it will give ma’amselle an appetite 
for her tartine and strawberries.” 

“Very well, Jeannette. Yes, I will go. Here, 
take this up to my room. I will go on this way. 
You can follow me.” 

So, with a slow and lingering step, the little heiress 
of many Yentnors sets off. She is a somewhat preco- 
cious little girl, old-fashioned, as it is phrased, a trifle 
prim in speech and manner, except now and then when 
the wild child-nature bursts its trammels, and she 


HOW LITTLE OLOA GETS LOST. 


35 


runs, and sings, and romps as wildly as the squirrels 
she chases. Just at this moment she is under a cloud. 
Cousin Frank has wounded and disappointed her. He 
will not tell her where he goes or what he does all 
these long hours of absence. 

‘‘ Up the village ” is vague and unsatisfactory to a 
degree ; he has broken his promise about taking her to 
Abbott Wood, and she likes to play croquet with 
Geoff and Leo Abbott. Frank’s promises, she is be- 
ginning to discover, are very pie-crusty indeed ; he 
makes them with lavish prodigality, and breaks them 
without a shadow of scruple. All these things are 
preying on Miss Ventnor’s eleven-year-old mind for 
the first few minutes, and make her step lagging and 
her manner listless. Then a brilliant butterfly swings 
past her, and she starts in pursuit — then a squirrel 
darts out of a woodland path and challenges her to a 
race — then a tempting cluster of flame-colored marsh 
flowers catches her eye, and she makes a detour to get 
them — then she finds herself in a thicket of raspberry 
bushes, and begins to pluck and eat. Overhead there 
is a hot, hot sun, sinking in a blazing western sky like 
a lake of molten gold. 

In these woody dells there are coolness and shadow, 
sweet forest smells, the chirp oi birds, the myriad 
sounds of sylvan silence. A breeze is rising, too. She 
goes on and on, eating, singing, chasing birds and but- 
terflies, rabbits and field mice, all live things that 
cross her path. 

All at once she pauses. Where is Jeannette ? She 
Has been rambling more than an hour, she is far from 
home, the sun has set, she is tired, the place is strange, 
she has never been here before. Her dress is soiled. 


HOW LITTLE OLGA GETS LOST. 


S6 

her bools are muddy ; woods, trees, marshes are ^roand 
her — no houses, no people. Oh ! where is she — where 
is her honnef 

“ Jeannette ! Jeannette 1” She stops and oriei 
Exond : “Jeannette! where are you ?” 

Her shrill, childish voice echoes down the dim 
woodland aisles. Only that, and the gathering still- 
ness of the lonesome evening in the wood. 

“ Jeannette ! Jeannette ! Jeannette !” 

In wild affright the young voice peals forth its 
piteous cry. But only the fitful sighing of the twi- 
light wind, only the mournful rustle of the leaves, 
only the faint call of the little mother birds in their 
nests, answer her. Then she knows the truth — she is 
lost I 

Lost in the woods, far from any habitation, and 
night close at hand. Jeannette has lingered behind to 
gossip ; she, Olga, has gone heedlessly on ; now it is 
coming night ; she is alone, and lost in the black, 
whispering, awful, lonely woods I 

She stands still and looks around her. Overhead 
there is a gray and pearl-tinted sky, very bright still 
in the west, but with a star or two gleaming over the 
tree-tops. In the forest it is already pitch-dark. In 
the open, where she now stands, it will be light for 
half an hour yet. To the right spreads the pine 
woods, whispering, whispering mysteriously in the 
solemn darkening hush ; to the left is a waste of dry 
and dreary marsh land, intermediate and blankly gray 
in the gloamhig. No house, no living thing to 1^ seen 
far or near ! 


▲ WILD €^1EL Oir THE WOOHS. 


37 


CHAPTER IV 


A WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 



HAT shall she do? The child is not a 
coward — she has been so sheltered, so 
loved, so encompassed by care all hei 
short life, that fear is a sensation almost 
unknown. If it were noonday she would not fear now, 
she would wander on and on, calling for Jeannette 
until some one came to her aid, some one who would 
be sure to take care of her and bring her home. But 
the gathering darkness is about her, the tall black 
trees stand up like threatening giants, the deep recess- 
es of the wood are as so many gaping dragon’s jaws, 
ready to swallow her up. Perhaps there are ghosts in 
that grim forest — Jeannette has a wholesome horror 
of revenants, and her little mistress shares it. Oh I 
what shall she do ? Where is papa ? where is Frank, 
mamma, Jeannette, any one — any one she knows, to 
come to the rescue ? She stands there in that breath- 
less, awesome solitude, a panic-stricken, lonely little 
figure, in her soiled dress, and muddy, blue kid boots. 

“Jeannette! Jeannette! JEANNETTE!” 

The terrified voice pierces wildly the stillness, its 
desolate echo comes back to her, and frightens her 
more and more. Oh ! what shall she do ? Must she 
stay here in this awful, awful place until morning ! 
What will become of her? Are there bears, or lions 
or robbers in that spectral forest ? She has on a neck 
lace of gold beads — will tk^ey kill her for that ? 


28 


k WILD GIRL OF THE WOODS. 


‘‘Jeannette! Jeannette I” she cries, in sobbing 
despair but no Jeannette answers. She is indeed lost, 
hopelessly lost, and the dark, dreadful night is already 
here. 

All this time she has been standing stiH, now a 
sadden panic seizes her. Fiery eyes glare at her out 
of the vast depths of the wood, strange weird moans, 
and voices in pain, come to her from its gloomy vast- 
ness. She turns wild with fright, and flies, flies for 
life from the haunted spot. 

She runs headlong — how long or how far she never 
knows. Panting, gasping, slipping, falling, flying on ! 
She does not cry out, she cannot, she is all spent and 
breathless. Something terrific is behind her, in hot 
pursuit, ghost, goblin, fiery dragon — who knew what ? 
stretching forth skeleton hands to catch her — a phan- 
tom of horror and despair ! And still the silvery 
twilight deepens, the stars shine out, and still she 
rushes on, a wildly-flying, small white figure in the 
lovely summer dusk. 

At last — overtasked nature can bear no more, she 
falls headlong on the soft, turfy ground, her eyes 
closed, her hands clenched, and lies panting and still. 
Is she dying, she wonders ; she feels dizzy and sick — 
is she going to die far from papa and mamma, and 
Frank, alone in this lonesome place ? How sorry they 
will all be to-morrow, when they come upon her lying 
like this, all cold and dead. She thinks of the Babes 
in the Wood, and wonders if the robins will cover her 
with leaves. 

“Hullo r 

It is no voice of ghost or goblin. It is nnmistak 
ably a human salute, and very close by. She lifts 


A. wmm imm ^ 

JSetserf flilently, too utterly exhausted to reply, aud 
lees standing beside her, in the dusk of the warm 
night, the figure of — a girl ? is it a girl ? She puts 
back the tangled golden locks, and gazes up in a 
dazed, bewildered way, at this apparition. 

“ Hullo !” says the voice, again. It is not a pleas 
ant voice j the face that looks down at her is not a 
pleasant face. It a girl, of twelve or so, in a scant 
skirt, a boy’s blouse belted with a strap of leather, a 
shaggy head of unkempt reddish hair, a thin, eager, 
old-young face, long bare legs, and bare feet. 

“ Hullo !” 

For the third time she hails the prostrate Olga 
with this salute, in a high-pitched, harsh tone, and for 
the third time receiving no reply, varies it : 

“ I say, you ! Ye ain’t deef, are ye ? Can’t ye 
speak? Who are you? What are you doin’ here, 
this time o’ night?” 

Still no reply. The rasping voice, the scowling 
look, the wild air of the unexpected figure, have 
stricken Olga mute with a new terror. No one has 
ever looked at her, or spoken to her like this, in all 
her life before. 

“ Deef are ye, or sulky — which ? Git cp— git up, 
I say, or I’ll make ye I Say, you I who are you ? 
What are ye about here, lying on the ground ? Why 
— lor ! ef it ain’t the Ventnor gal !” 

She has taken a stride toward Olga, who springs 
to her feet instantly. They stand confronting one 
another in the dim light, the little white heiress shak- 
ing with fatigue and fear, the fierce-looking, wild 
creature glancing at her with eyes like a cat. 

** Say * If ye don’t speak I’ll scratch ye. I’ll bite 


BO 


A mw ©lEL OB' THE 


ye — ril pull your ugly long hah out by the roots 1 
Ain’t you the Ventnor gal ? Come now — say !’• 

She makes a threatening step near. The poor 
little princess puts up two imploring hands. 

" Oh ! please, please don’t bite me ! I don’t mean 
any harm. I am only lost, and fell down here I” A 
great sob. “I am Olga Ventnor, and I want to go 
home — oh I I want to go home !” 

She breaks down in a great passion of sobs. The 
impish-looking child before her bursts into a discord 
ant, jeering laugh. 

She wants to go home ! Oh, she wants to go 
home ! Oh ! please somebody come and take this 
young lady home ! Look at her ! Ain’t she putty 
with her old white dress, and muddy shoes, and shiny 
beads. Say, you ! give me them beads this very min- 
ute, or I’ll snatch ’em off your neck.” 

With rapid, trembling fingers, the child unfastens 
the necklace, and holds it out to her tormentor. 

‘‘ What business have you, you stuck-up little pea- 
cock !” continues the imp, wrenching, savagely, the 
costly trinket asunder, “ with hair down to your waist, 
yellow hair too, the color of your beads, and all in nasty 
ringlets ! Oh, lordy ! we think ourselves handsome, 
don’t we ? And embroidery and lace on our frocks, and 
pink, and blue, and white buttoned boots, with ribbon 
bows ! I’ve seen you. And a French servant gal to wait 
on us, in a white cap and apron ! And a kerridge to ride 
in ! And white feathers in our hats, and kid gloves, 
and silk stocken’s I We’re a great lady, we are, till we 
get lost in the woods, and then we can’t do nothin’ but 
sit down and blubber like a great calf ! Why, you 
lifile devil t” she takes a step uearer, and her tone and 


A WILD QtnL OF THK WOODB. 


m 

look grow ferocious, “ do you know that I hate you, 
that I would like to tramp on you, that I spit at yon !” 
which she does — “ that I would like to pull out every 
one of them long curls bv the roots ! And I’ll do it, 
too, before I let you go !” 

The child is deadly white, deadly still with fear. 
She does not speak or move, cry out or turn to run- 
some terrible fascination holds her there breathless 
and spell-bound. 

“ What business have you,” cries the creature, witr 
ever-increasing ferocity, “ with curls, and silk dresses, 
and gold beads, and servants, and kerridges, while 
your betters are tramping about bare-footed, and beat, 
and abused, and starved? You ain’t no better nor 
me ! You ain’t so good, for you’re a coward, and a 
cry-baby, and a little fool ! And I’m goin’ to hev 
them curls ! And if you screech I’ll kill you ! I will ! 
I hate you — I’ve hated you ever since I sor you first !’ 

She darts a step nearer. Olga recoils a step back- 
ward. Still she makes no outcry, no attempt to run. 
That fascination of intense terror holds her fast. 

‘‘ I know you, and I know all about you,” goes on 
the goblin. ‘‘ I know your cousin, Frank Livingston ; 
he comes to our house — he gives presents to I<ora and 
Liz Sleaford. He’s sweet on Lora, he is. wears 
long curls. Lor bless you, too. Like tar ropes they are, 
over A,er shoulders. Fm Sleaford’s Joanna ; if I don’t 
kill you, you’ll know me next time, won’t you ? And 
I hate you because you’re a young lady, with kerridges, 
and servants, and nothin’ to do, and long yellow ring- 
fets down your stuck-up back.” 

The ringlets seem to be the one unforgivable sin j 
§he glares at them vengefully as she speaks. 


sa sleafobb’s. 

“ I’m goin’ to pull them out. I never thought Pd 
hev the chance. There ain’t nobody here to help or 
come if you yell. I don’t care if they beat m© to 
death for it, or hang me — I’ll pull ’em out !” 

She springs upon her victim with the leap of a 
wild-cat, and buries her claw-like fingers in the pale 
gold of the clustering hair. There is no mistaking her 
meaning — she fully intends it ; her fierce eyes blaze 
with a baleful fire. And now, indeed, Olga finds hei 
/oice, and it rings out shrill, pealing, agonized. 

“ Papa ! papa ! Oh, papa !” 

“ Hi !” answers a sharp voice. Then a sharper 
wMstle cuts the air. “ Hi ! Who’s that ? Call 
again !” 

“ Papa I papa ! papa !” 

There is a crashing among the trees, and not a 
©econd too soon. With a violent push, and — an oaJth 
— this diabolical Little Barefoot flings her victim from 
her, and leaps away into the darkness with the fleet- 
ness of a fawn. 


CHAPTER V. 

sleafobd’s. 

is not papa who comes rushing to the res 
cue, but it is a man who stoops and pioL^ 
her up — a young man with a gypsy face, a 
gun over his shoulder, and two or thi«e 
yelping dogs at his heels. 

“What the dickens is the low?” he asks ‘ Hold 
up, little ’un. Good G I %he’s dead I” 



SLEAFORD’®. 


S8 


it looks like it. She lies across his arm, a limp 
and inert little form, all white drapery, blonde curls, 
and pale, still face. The moon is rising now, the big 
white shield of the July night, and he takes off the 
crushed Leghorn flat the better to behold his prize. 

‘‘By thunder!” he exclaims, aloud, “it’s the littl® 
Ventnor. The little great lady, the little heiress. 
Now, then, here’s a go, and no mistake.” 

He stands at a loss, utterly surprised. She has 
been as a small Sultana in the eyes of all Brightbrook, 
every one knows her, and to find her like this, dead, to 
all seeming, murdered, it may be, appalls him. 

“ She wasn’t dead a minute ago ; she was screech- 
ing for her papa like a good ’un. Perhaps she ain’t dead 
yet. Maybe she’s fainted or that, frightened at some- 
thing. Don’t seem to be anybody here to frighten 
her, nuther. Wonder what’s gone with the French 
ma’amselle? Well, I’ll tote her to the house anyhow ; 
if she’s alive at all the gals ’ll fetch her round.” 

He swings her as he might a kitten over his shoul- 
der. He is a long-limbed, brown-skinned young 
fellow of twenty, whistles to his dogs, and starts over 
the star-lit fields at a swinging pace. All the way he 
whistles, all the way his keen black eyes keep a bright 
lookout for any one who may be in hiding. No on© 
seems to be, for he reaches his desticjaticn, a solitary 
red farm-house standing among some arid-looking 
meadows. A field of corn at one side looks, in the 
shine of the moon, like a goblin play-ground, but the 
house itself seems cheery enough. Many lights twinkle 
along its low front, and the lively strains of a fiddle 
greet him as he opens the door 

The interior is a remarkable one enough. The 


a4 blsafobd’s. 

room is long and low, the ceiling quite biack with 
smoke, as are also the walls, the broad floor a trifle 
blacker, if possible, than either ; the furniture, some 
yellow wooden chairs, two deal tables, a wooden sofa, 
and a cupboard, well stocked with coarse blue delf. 
It is, in fact, the farm-house kitchen, and in the wide 
fire-place, despite the warmth of the night, a fire is 
burning. Over it hangs a large pot, in which the 
family supper is simmering and sending forth savory 
odors. 

The occupants of the room are four. On one ot 
the tables is perched a youth of eighteen, black-eyed, 
black-haired, swarthy-skinned, playing the Virginia 
reel with vigor and skill. 

Two girls, young women, as far as size and de- 
velopment make women, though evidently not more 
than sixteen, are dancing with might and main, their 
hands on their sides, their heads well up, their chetks 
flushed crimson, their black eyes alight, their black 
hair unbound — two wild young Bacchanti. 

The one spectator of the reel sits crouched in the 
chimney-c'^-ner, her knees drawn up, her elbows oh 
them, her chin in her palms, a singularly witch-lik« 
attitude, barefooted, shock-headed, with gleaming, 
derisive dark eyes. 

The door is flung wide, and enters the young max 
of the woods, with his burden, his gun, and his dogs. 
The reel comes to a sudden stop, and six big black 
eyes stare in wild wonder at this unexpected sight. 

“ Why — what is it one of the girls cries — “ a 
dead child, Dan ? What for the Lord’s sake have you 
got there 

^ Ah I What says Here, take her, and 


BL 


»ee if she’s living or dead. I can lell you iy^ho she Is, 
fast enough, or who she was, rather, for she looks as 
dead as a door-nail now, blessed if she don’t. Here ! 
fetch her to if you can, you, Lora ; it will be worth 
while, let me tell you.” 

He lays the limp child in the arras of one of the 
girls. The firelight falls full upon the waxen face as 
they all crowd around. Only the crouching figure in 
the ingle nook stirs not. There is a simultaneous out- 
cry of recognition and dismay. 

“ It’s little Missy Ventnor !” 

‘‘ It’s the kernal’s little gal !” 

“ It’s Frank Livingston’s cousin !” 

“ It’s the little heiress !” 

Then there is a pause, an open-mouthed, round- 
eyed pause, and gasp of astonishment. It requires a 
moment to take this in. 

“ And while you’re staring there like stuck pigs,” 
says the sarcastic voice of Brother Dan, “the young 
’un stands a good chance of becoming a stiff ’un in 
reality, if she ain’t now. Can’t you sprinkle her with 
water, you fools, or unhook her clothes, or do what- 
ever ought to be done. You, Lora, tote her into the 
next room, and bring her round, and you, Liz, dish up 
that hash, for I’m as hungry as a hunter.” 

Issuing these commands, he draws up a chair to 
the fire, as though it were December, and proceeds to 
load a little black pipe to the muzzle. Thus engaged, 
his eyes fall on the huddled-up figure opposite. 

“ Oh !” he growls, “yow’re there. Miss Fiery Head, 
layin’ in the chimney-corner, as usual. Git up and set 
the table. D’ye hear ?” 

She does not seem to ; she blinks jp at him like a 


86 


SLEAFORD^'S. 


toad, and does not stir. With an oath he soixes 9 
billet of wood, and hurls it at her, but sue ducks with 
a mocking laugh, and it goes over her head. As he 
stoops for another, she springs to her feet, and sets U 
work to do his bidding. 

Meanwhile, in the next room, the two sisters ar« 
doing their unskilled best to bring Miss Ventnor 
“ round.” It is the parlor of the establishment, has a 
carpet on the floor, cane-seated chairs arranged primly 
around, a rocker to match, sundry gay and gnudy 
chromos on the walls, china dogs and cats on the man- 
tel, green boughs in the fire-place, and a crimson lounge 
under the windows. On this lounge they lay her^ 
they sprinkle her plentifully with water, force a littU 
whisky into her mouth, slap her palms, undo her dress 
and after some ten minutes of this manipulation then 
is a long-drawn sigh and shiver, the eyelids flutter 
©pen, shut, open again, and two blue eyes look up inU 
the gypsy faces bending above her. 

‘‘ There !” says one of the sisters, with a lon^ 
breath of satisfaction, “you’re all right now, ain’ 
you ? Gracious ! how white and limpsy you was, U 
be sure. First time I ever saw anybody in a faiw 
before in my life. Drink a little drop of this, it’» 
whisky and water.” 

But Olga pushes away the nauseous beverage will 
disgust. 

“ I don’t like it,” she says, faintly ; “ the smeL 
makes me sick. Please take it away.” She pushet 
back her tangled hair and looks vaguely about her. 
‘'Where am I?” she asks, beginning to tremble 
‘ What place is this ?” 

“ Oh, you’re all right ; don’t be scared, deary,” sayi 


SLEAFORD’ B. 


37 


the sister called Lora ; this is Sleaford’s. I’m Lora 
Sleaford ; this is my sister, Liz. Bless us, what a 
pretty little thing you are, as fair as a lily, I do de- 
clare ! I wish I was ; but I am as black as a crow. 
We all are, father and all, even our Joanna, in spite of 
her horrid red haiiv Don’t be frightened, little missy ; 
we know who you are, and you are all safe. And we 
know your cousin, Frank Livingston ; he is a right 
nice fellow, comes here most every night. Likely’s 
not he’ll be here in a little while, now, and then he 
can take you home. Liz ! there’s the boys calling for 
their supper, and I hear father. You’d better go and 
get it for them.” 

“Joanna’s there,” says Liz, not stirring ; “let Aer.” 

“ When you know very well she won’t if she takes 
the notion,” retorts Lora, angrily ; “ there ! there’s 
father calling you. Now, you must go.” 

It seems she must, for she does. Lora turns back 
again to her charge. There is not much difference in 
these two sisters, and naturally, for they are twins, 
but Lora is rather the better looking, and decidedly 
the better natured of the pair. 

“ How did you come to be with our Dan, anyhow ?” 
she asks, curiously. “ Where did he find you ? and 
what on earth made you faint away ?” 

The question arouses memory. Olga shuts her eyes 
with a shudder, and turns so white that Lora thinks 
ihe is going to faint again. 

“ Oh ! that dreadful girl 1 that dreadful girl !” she 
says, with a shuddering gasp. 

“ What dreadful girl ? What do you mean ? Did 
you get lost, and did somebody scare you in the 
woods ? What was she like ?” demands Lora, sharply, 


S8 


SLEAFORD’S. 


But Olga cannot tell. She trembles, and shivery 
and covers her eyes with her hands, as if to shut oat 
some dreadful vision. “She said she would pull my 
hair out, and then — and then I got dizzy, and it got 
dark, and — and that is all,” she replies, incoherently. 

“Now I wonder if it wasn’t our Joanna?” Miss 
Sleaford says, musingly. “ It would be just like her 
— little imp ! If I thought it was — but no, Joanna 
was in the house ever so long before they came. Well, 
don’t you cry, little deary. Frank Livingston will be 
here pretty soon, and he’ll take you home. Now I’ll 
go and get you something to eat. You’re hungry, 
uin’t you, and would like some tea ?” 

“ Oh, I only want papa ! — nothing but papa !” sobs 
itie child, quivering with nervous excitement. “ Oh, 
papa, papa, papa !” 

“Well, there, don’t make a fuss; your papa will 
come directly, I tell you. And you are all safe here, 
und needn’t be afraid. Now I’ll go and get you some- 
thing — toast and tea — if there is any tea. So stop 
crying, or you’ll make yourself sick.” 

Miss Sleaford departs. In the kitchen the two 
young men, and their father, Giles Sleaford, are seated 
at one of the deal tables, partaking of steaming hash 
with the appetites of hunters and constitutionally hun- 
gry men. The father is like the sons, a powerful, 
black-bearded, sullen-looking man. Evidently he has 
beard the story, for he looks up, with a glower, as his 
daughter enters. “ Well?” he says, in a growling sort 
of voice ; “ how is she ?” 

“ Oh, all right,” Lora responds. “ Crying for her 
papa, of course. She won’t take any of that stuff,” 
pointing to the greasy dish of hash with some disdain j 


BLEAFOSD^S. 


“I m i8t make her some toast, if there is any raised 
bread.” 

“ There ain’t any raised bread,” says Liz, 

“ Make her tea,” suggests Dan ; “ that’s the staff 
they drink. Store tea, and some short-cake.” 

‘‘ There ain’t no tea,” says Liz again. 

“ Get some, then,” growls the master of the house ; 
“ she’s worth taking care on. Send to Brick’s and get 
some.” 

“ Joanna !” calls Liz, sharply ; “ d’ye bear ? Go !” 

She turns to the chimney-corner, where, crouched 
again, like a small salamander, in her former attitude, 
is Joanna, basking like a lizard in the heat. 

“ Won’t !” returns Joanna, brieiiy ; “ go yourself.” 

“ What ?” cries Giles Sleaford, turning in sudden 
ferocity from the table — what ?” 

“ Says she won’t,” says Liz, maliciously — “ says go 
myself.” 

The man rises and takes down a horsewhip from a 
shelf near, without a word. The dark, glittering eyes 
of the girl follow him, but she does not stir. “ Won’t, 
won't she?” says Mr. Sleaford. “We’ll see if she 
won’t. You little !” — two oaths and a hiss- 

ing blow. “You won’t go, won’t you, you little foxy 

I” 

With each imprecation, a cut of the whip falls 
across the shoulders of the crouching child. Two or 
three she bears in silence, then with a fierce scream of 
pain and passion, she leaps to her feet, darts across 
the room, and spits at him like a mad cat. 

“ No, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t I— not if you cut 
me in pieces with your whip 1 I won’t go for tea for 
her I I won’t go for nothin’ for her 1 1 won’t go for 


40 


SLEAFORD’S. 


you — not if you whip me to death ! I won’t go ! 1 
won’t, I won’t, I won’t !” 

The man pauses : used as he is to her paroxysmi 
of fury she looks so like a mad thing, in hor rage at 
this moment, that he actually holds his brutal hand. 

“ Oh, come, dad, you let her alone,” remonstrates 
liis younger son ; ‘‘ don’t cut her up like that.” 

But recovering from his momentary check, Giles 
Sleaford lays hold of her to renew the attack. As he 
does so Joanna stoops and buries her sharp white 
teeth in his hand. And at that same instant a small 
white figure, with blanched face and dilated eyes, 
glides forward and stands before him. 

Don’t ! Oh, don’t !” Olga Yentnor says. “ Oh ! 
pray, pray don’t beat her like that !” She holds up 
her clasped hands to Giles Sleaford, who, partly from 
the pain of the bite, partly from surprise, recoils and 
lets go his hold. Instantly Joanna darts away, opens 
the door, and disappears. 

That’s the last of her till dinner-time to-morrow,” 
says the younger Sleaford, with a laugh, “ she’ll roost 
with the blue-birds to-night. Dad mayn’t think so, 
but he’ll drive that little devil to run a knife into him 
yet.” 

There is many a true word spoken in jest, says the 
adage. In the dark and tragical after days that 
lomber speech comes back to young Judsrn Sleaford 
like a prediction. 


A DEED OF DARKNESS. 


41 


CHAPTER VI. 

A DEED OP DARKNESS. 

it befalls, that in spite of threats and 
horsewhip, Joanna has her own way, and 
does not go for the tea. Giles Sleaford 
retires to the chimney-corner, grumbling 
internally, as is his sullen wont, and looking darkly 
askance at the small intruder. He makes uneasy signs 
to his daughters to take her back whence she came, as 
he fills his after-sapper pipe. Both his sons are already 
smoking, and the tobacco-laden atmosphere half 
chokes the child. 

“ Come, dear,” says Lora, taking her by the hand. 

“ But what is she to have to eat ?” queries Liz. “ 1 
suppose, Jud, you wouldn’t go for the tea ?” 

“ Ho, I wouldn’t,” answers Jud, promptly. “ I’m 
dead tired. I don’t stir out o’ this corner, ’cept to go 
to bunk to-night. Besides, she says she don’t dr.nk it 
— heerd her yourself, didn’t yer ?” 

“ Perhaps she’ll take milk,” suggests Dan. ‘ Ask 
her. Lorry.” 

“ Oh, yes, please, I will take milk,” Olga re< ionds, 
shrinking into herself ; ‘‘ anything. Indeed, I am not 
m the least hungry.” 

And I’ll poach her an egg,” says Liz, brigl tening, 
now that this difficult question of the commissariat *8 
settled. “I’ll fetch it in in five minutes. You undress 
her, Lora, and put her to bed.” 

“ But I want to go home !” Olga says, beginning to 



42 


A DEED OF DARKNESS. 


tremble again. ‘‘I must not stay here all night 
Papa and mamma do not know where I am. Yoa 
must not undress me, please. I must go home.” 

“But, little missy, you can’t go home to-night 
See, it is eleven o’clock now, and even if Frank 
Livingston does come, which ain’t likely (though what 
keeps him I can’t think), it will be too late for you to 
go back to your home with him. It is a good three 
miles if it is an inch.” 

“ Oh I what shall I do ?” poor little Olga sobs, “ and 
papa will be frightened to death, and mamma will 
worry herself sick. Oh ! I wish Cousin Frank would 
come. But he will not — I know he will not. I made 
him promise this afternoon.” 

“ What ?” says Lora Sleaford, blankly. 

“ I made him promise. He stays out so late, you 
know, and I made him promise he would not any 
more. And that is why he has not come,” explains 
Olga, with a sob. 

“Well, I do declare !” cries Miss Sleaford, looking 
anything but pleased. “ Tote made him promise ! A 
bit of a dolly like you ! Well — you see it’s yourself 
you have punished after all. If you had let him alone 
he would have been here two hours ago, and you 
might have been home by this.” 

Miss Yentnor covers her face with her mite of a 
pocket-handkerchief, and sobs within its folds. She is 
too much a little lady to do her weeping, or anything 
else, loudly or ungracefully, but none the less they are 
very real tears the cobweb cambric quenches. 

“So you didn’t want Mr. Frank to come here,” 
goes on Lora, still sulkily ; “ how did you know h« 
c;ime?” 


A DEED OF DAEKISTESS. 


43 


“ I did — didn’t know. I only knew he — he stopped 
out late. And he said — said — it was up the village. 
And I made him prom — promise he wouldn’t do so any 
more. Oh, dear, dear, dear !” 

“ There, there, stop crying,” says Lora, relenting ; 
‘‘you’ll certainly make yourself sick. Here’s Liz with 
something to eat. It ain’t what you’re used to, I 
dare say, but you must take something, you know, or 
you won’t be able to go home to-morrow either.” 

This argument effectually rouses the child. She 
dries her tears, and remembers suddenly she is hungry. 
Liz comes forward with a big black tray which is 
found to contain a glass of milk, a poached egg, some 
raspberries, a bit of butter, and a triangular wedge of 
short-cake. 

“ Now,” she says, “ that’s the best we can do for 
you. So eat something and go to bed.” She places 
the tray before the child, and Lora draws her to a 
window, where a whispered conference takes place. 

“Well, I never !” says Miss Sleaford the second, 
in high dudgeon ; “ the idea ! Gracious me ! a chh 
like that, too !” 

It is evident Lora is retailing the embargo laid or 
Master Frank’s visits. 

“ It is lucky she doesn’t know about the presents, 
the jewelry and things. What an old-fashioned little 
puss !” 

There is more whispering, some giggling, and Olga 
feels in every shrinking little nerve that it is all about 
her. She drinks the milk, and eats the fruit, essays 
the egg, and mingles her tears with her meat. Oh ! 
how alarmed papa and mamma will be, and what a 
dreadful place this is to spend a whole long night 


44 


A DEED OF DARKNESS. 


Will they leave her alone in this room? will they 
leave her in the dark 

“ Now then !” exclaims Liz, briskly, " I see youVa 
done, so Pll just^ take the things, and go to bed. 
Father and the boys have gone already, and I’m aa 
blinky as an owl. Lora ” 

“ Fll stay for a bit,” says Lora. She is not an ill 
natnred girl, and she sees the speechless terror in the 
child’s eyes. “ You go to bed. I can sleep it out to- 
morrow morning.” 

Liz goes without more ado. Lora sits down beside 
the little girl, and begins to unbutton her boots. You 
know you can’t go home to-night,” she says, sooth- 
ingly, “and you are sleepy and nearly tired to death. 
Now you must just let me fix you up a bed here on the 
lounge, and I’ll only take off your dress, because you’ve 
no night-gown to put on. I’ll stay here with you, and 
to-morrow the first thing my brother Judson will go 
over to your cottage, and tell your folks. Now be 
good ; don’t look so pale and scary ; there’s nothing 
to be afraid of here, and I’m going to stay with you 
all night.” 

“All night?” questions Olga, lifting two large 
earnest eyes. 

“ Oh, yes, all night,” says Lora, who differs from 
George Washington, and can tell a lie. “Now, I’ll 
fix your bed, and sing you to sleep, and you will be at 
home to-morrow morning before you know it.” 

She produces sheets and a quilt, and improvises a 
bed, lays Olga in it, and takes a seat by her side. 

“ I will sing for you,” she says. “ You shut those 
pretty blue peepers right away, and don’t open them 
till breakfast-time to-morrow.” 


A DSED OF DAEKNESS. 


45 


She begins in a sweet, crooning voice a camp-meet- 
tng hymn. The low singing sound soothes the child’s 
still quivering nerves. Gradually her eyelids sway 
heavily, close, open again, shut once more, and she is 
fast. Then Miss Sleaford rises with a great yawn. 

‘‘ Off at last, and a tough job it was. Hush 1 
twelve o’clock 1 I thought it was twenty. I wonder 
if that young limb, Joanna, is back? Most likely not, 
though. It’s queer she don’t take her death o’ fever 
’n ague, sleeping out doors.” 

She gives a last look at the sleeper. 

“ Fast as a church,” she whispers. 

She takes the lamp, leaves the room, shuts the door 
softly, and goes up-stairs under the rafters to join her 
sleeping sister. The old red farm-house is very still. 
In the kitchen black beetles hold high carnival ; in the 
parlor the moonlight streams in on the pale hair and 
quiet face of the little lost heiress. Outside, the trees 
sway and rustle in the night breeze, and the stars burn 
big and bright in the mysterious silence of early 
morning. 

One ! two I three 1 

With a start Olga Ventnor awakes. It is the 
wooden Connecticut clock in the kitchen, loudly pro- 
claiming the hour. Awakes with a chill and a thrill 
of terror, to find herself quite alone. Lora gone, the 
light fled, the pale, solemn shine of the moon filling 
the place, and that loud strident clock striking three. 
Oh, to hear Cousin Frank’s footsteps now stealing up 
and on to his room ! Oh, for Jeannette — Lora — any 
one — anything but this silent, spectral, moonlit room I 

Stay I What is that ? 

She is not alone. Yonder in the comer, under the 


49 


A DEED OF DAEKNESS. 


chimney-piece, crouches a figure all huddled in a heapi 
knees drawn up, and arms clasped around them. With 
appalling distinctness she sees it, the shock head ot 
hair, the thin, fierce face, the bare feet and legs. Sh« 
has seen it before. The moonlight is full upon it, the 
eyes are wide open and gleam like a cat’s. The crea 
ture sits perfectly motionless, and stares before her. 
Perfectly motionless, also, Olga lies, in a trance of 
terror, scarcely breathing, feeling numb and frozen 
with deadly fear. The thing stirs at last, shakes 
itself, turns to the bed, glares at it, and rises slowly 
to its feet. Olga’s heart has stopped beating, she has 
no voice to cry out, all her faculties are absorbed in 
one — seeing. The apparition speaks in a muffled whis- 
per to itself : 

“ I’ll do it ! I’ll do it if they kill me — if they whip 
me till I’m dead. I hate her ; I always hated her. I 
hate ’em all, but her most. I never thought I’d have 
the chance, and now she’s here and asleep, and I’ll do 
it. I’ll do it. I’ll do it !” 

She tiptoes to the bed ; there is a gleam ef blue 
steel. Is it a knife ? She is close — she stretches out 
one long, thin hand, clutches a handful of fair, float- 
ing hair. The malignant face, the gleaming eyes, the 
wild hair, are within three inches of Olga. Then, 
with a shock, the child leaps from the bed, rushes 
frantically across the room, her shrieks rending vhe 
stillness, flings open the door, and falls headlong lo 
the passage. 


fi^iSAFeBD S JO ANITA 


47 


CHAPTER VIL 



SLEAFORD’S JOANNA. 

’|UT into the moonlight five houis before 
the child Joanna had fled, pale with pas- 
sion, pain, defiance, ablaze with wrath 
iil against all the world. It is a customary 
mood enough with this elfish child, twelve only in 
years, a score, if hatred, envy, malice, and all ill-will 
can age a child. To be flogged like a hound, to be 
sent supperless to bed, to be starved in attic or cellar, 
to swelter in fierce August noontides, or shiver among 
the rats on bitter January nights, these are old and 
well-known experiences in Joanna’s life. To be forced 
to labor from day-dawn until midnight, wdth every 
bone aching ; to go barefoot through slush and snow ; 
to sleep and live worse than the dogs — for they are 
cared for ; to hear only brutal words, and still more 
brutal oaths, from her task-master’s lips ; to be jeered 
at, to go clad in rags — this has been the life of this 
girl of twelve, the only life she can ever remember. 
Lora and Liz are well, gayly clad indeed ; they sing, 
they dance, they idle, they work or let it alone as they 
choose. Is not Joanna there, the household drudge, 
the homely, red-haired, rustic Cinderella, with never 
godmother or other mother, in fairyland or out of it, 
to come to the rescue with a pumpkin ccach and a pair 
of glass slippers ? She knows that lovely legend of 
happy childhood, this most unhappy little outcast, and 
aighs bitterly sometimes as she looks at the big golden 
globes she cuts up for the cows and pigs. 


48 


SLEAFORD’S JOANNA. 


There are fairy godmothers in the world, no doubt, 
and handsome young princesses, but they never, oh, 
never come near Sleaford’s Farm. And who ever con- 
ceived a Cinderella with fiery-red hair, freckles, and 
long mottled shins ? A cinder-sifter she has been 
born, a cinder-sifter she must die. 

She has these thoughts sometimes, formless aird 
vague mostly, but bitter always. It would have been 
better if Giles Sleaford had left her in the gutter to 
starve ten years ago, instead of fishing her out of it, 
as he says he has done. He makes a great deal of that 
far-off city gutter in his grumbling way, for she is not 
his daughter, this bare-limbed unfortunate ; she is no- 
body’s daughter, so far as she can find. 

He has taken her out of the slime where she was 
born, he tells her, and slaves early and late to give her 
a home, and this is her thanks, dash her ! Her mother 
afore her was a good-for-nothin’ — dash, dash her — 
what can be expected from the unlicked cub of such a 
dam-— dash her ! double-dash everything and every- 
body, his own eyes and limbs included. Giles Sleaford 
was an Englishman once, he is a cosmopolitan now ; 
has tramped over the world in a vagabond sort of way, 
is a man under a cloud, banned and shunned by his 
neighbors. He has neither bought nor rented this 
farm, and yet he is in undisturbed possession. He 
does not work ; he fishes, shoots, prowls, drinks, fights ; 
is a worthless brute generally. Yet he has plenty of 
money his daughters dress in expensive finery, and 
there is a rough sort of plenty always at their house, 
lie is of horses horsey, and bets and loses heavily. He 
ift a bit of a prize-fighter, a little of a gambler, a dark 
ftxid dangerous fellow always. Some mystery shrouds 


SLEAFORD’S JOANNA. 


49 


him ; he throws out vague hints now and then of the 
power he holds over a certain very rich man and mag^ 
Date of the place. He is brutal to all, to his own sons 
and daughters, but most of all to the hapless creature 
known as Sleaford’s Joanna. That he has not killed 
her outright in one of his fits of fury is not due to him, 
one of the Sleaford boys or girls generally interfering 
in bare nick of time. Their drudge is useful, they do 
not want her beaten to death, or the prying eyes of 
the land brought to bear on their rustic household. So 
Joanna is still alive to scour the woods, and terrify 
small, fair-haired heiresses into fits. 

The moon is shining brilliantly as she leaves the 
house. She looks up at it, her hands locked together 
in a tense clench, her teeth set, her eyes aflame with 
the fires of rage and hatred, her shoulders red and 
welted with the stinging blows of the whip. It is a 
mute appeal to Heaven against the brutality and cru 
elty of earth — that Heaven of which she knows noth 
Ing, except that it is a word to swear by. 

She wanders slowiy on, not crying — she hardly 
ever cries. The silence, the coolness, the beauty of 
the night calms her ; she does not mind spending it 
among the dewy clover, or under a tree ; she sleeps 
there oftener in summer than anywhere else. She 
takes a path well known to her bare feet — it leads to 
her favorite sulking place, as the Sleaford girls call it, 
and is perhaps the ugliest spot within a radius of 
twenty miles. It is called Black’s Dam. An old dis- 
used mill falling to pieces stands there, the water in 
the stagnant pond is muddy and foul. It is a desolate 
spot in broad day, it is utterly dismal and dark by 
night. Some fellow-feeling draws her to it — it, too, is 

a 


sleafoed's joane^a. 


lonely, is ugly, is shunned. Black’s Dam is her on® 
friend. The ruined mill is haunted, of course ; corpse 
candles burn there, shrieks are heard there, it is peo- 
pled by a whole colony of bogies. But Joanna is not 
afraid of ghosts. Ghosts never horsewhip, never swear, 
never throws sticks of hickory at people’s heads — do 
nothing, in fact, but go about in white sheets after 
nightfall, and squeal to scare people. The only corpse- 
lights she has ever seen are lightning-bugs, the only 
supernatural screams the whoo-whoo of a belated owl. 
The sheeted specters never appear to her ; when she 
is exceptionally lonely sometimes she would rather be 
glad of the company of one or two. But ghosts are 
not sociable, they never seem to have much to say for 
themselves, so perhaps it is as well. On rainy nights 
she sleeps in the old mill ; after unusually bad beat- 
ings she has staid there for days, feeding on berries, 
and been found and forced back again at last, a gaunt 
skeleton. More than once she has sat and stared at 
the green, slimy w^ater until the desire to spring in and 
end it all grows almost more than she can resist. 
“Only old Giles Sleaford will be glad of it,” she 
thinks ; “I’ll keep alive just to spite him.” And, sad 
to say, it is this motive that actually holds the creature 
back from self-destruction many a time. 

The tempter is very strong within her to-night, but 
Giles Sleaford is not the object of her vindictive, sup- 
pressed wrath. It is Olga Ventnor. She has grown so 
used to his oaths and blows that she looks for nothing 
else ; but a hundred demons seem aroused within her 
by the sight of the beautiful, golden-haired, richly- 
robed child. T^is is the sort to whom fairy god- 
mothers come, for whom magic wands are struck, who 


SLEAFORD’S JOANNA. 


51 


go to balls, and dance with the handsome prince, and 
marry him, and live happy forever after. This is 
what she might have been but never can be. All the 
beauty, and the riches, and the fairy gifts are for this 
little curled darling of the gods ; for her — the lash, 
the feeding of the pigs, the rags, the rye bread, the 
ugly, ugly red hair ! 

She has reached the dam, and sits down on a flat 
stone on the brink. It is unspeakably lonely — the 
moon shines in a cloudless midnight sky ; the water lies 
black, solemn, still ; the old mill stands sinister, mys- 
terious, casting long shadows. Hardly a breath stirs ; 
some frogs croak dismally in the green depths — that 
is all. 

She sits in her favorite attitude, her knees drawn 
up, her chin in her palms, and stares vacantly before 
her. One thought, one only, possesses her — her hatred 
of this delicate little beauty and heiress, with her pearl- 
fair face and long light hair. She would kill her if 
she could ; she has all the will in the world at this 
moment to be a little murderess. Shocking — unreal ? 
Well, no ; think how she has been brought up — think 
of the records of juvenile depravity you read and 
shudder at in the newspaper every day. The demon 
of envy holds her — a passionate outcry against the ic 
justice of her fate, that has given the golden apples of 
life to this one, the scourings of the pig-trough to her. 
“ Unjust ! unjust !” something within her cries, 
“ why has she all — I nothing ?” It is the spirit that 
has hurled kings from thrones, wrought revolutions, 
filled the world witt communism — that will beat the 
air impotently to the end of time. No savage could 
be more untaught than this child. There was a Power 


52 


Sleaford’s joanka. 


up there who had created her, but who looked down 
OH all this and made no sign. There was a Heaven for 
well-dressed, respectable ladies and gentlemen, and 
little heiresses. There was a Hell for such as she, 
wicked and poor, where they would go when they 
died, and burn in torment forever. This much she be- 
lieves — it comprises her whole theory of religion. 

She sits for a long time brooding, brooding. She 
meant to have done something to that girl that would 
mark her for life — spoil her beauty in some way — but 
she has been prevented. No doubt by this time 
Frank Livingston has come and fetched her home, 
and her chance is gone forever. Frank Livingston, 
too, is a lily of the field, a handsome dandy, but he 
awakens none of this slumbering gall and bitterness 
within her. He is simply something to be silently ad- 
mired, revered, and wondered at, a being of bright- 
ness and beauty, of splendid raiment, lacquered boots, 
diamond studs, and a general odor of roses and Ess. 
Bouquet. He is the prince to be worshiped at a dis- 
tance, and not to be lightly touched or spoken to. 
She wonders sometimes to behold him pulling Lora 
about in very unprincely fashion, and to see that 
buxom damsel slap his face, and frowsle his silky 
chestnut hair. For him, he takes no more notice of 
this uncanny-looking child, with the eldritch red locks, 
than of one of the half-dozen ill-conditioned dogs 
that yelp about the premises. That he is the object 
of her silent idolatry would have tickled Master Frank 
beyond everything. 

She rises at last, shivering in the bleak night wind. 
She is as nearly nude as it is possible to be in a state 
of civilization, rad the chiU damp pierces through her 


SLEAFOBD’S JOANNA. 


tatters. Why she does not go into the mill until the 
morning she never knows ; she turns, instead, and 
Walks slowly back to the farm. 

The house is all dark and silent. The dogs fly at 
her, but a word quiets them ; they, too, know Joanna’s 
witch-like ways. Jud Sleaford swears she spends half 
her nights riding the air on a broom-stick — she comes 
and goes, like the night-wind, where she listeth. 

She goes to the parlor window, and flattens her 
nose against the pane. Her eyes are keen as any 
ferret’s. Yes, there she is — she has not gone home — 
asleep — alone ! — in her power ! The girl’s eyes light ; 
they glitter in the dark. There she is, asleep, alone, 
in her power ! 

She goes round to a side window, opens it, and 
enters. Hogs, guns, and men are plentiful at Slea- 
ford’s — bolts are scarce ; there is no fear of burglars. 
She enters, drops lightly to the ground, goes straight 
to a shelf in the kitchen, takes down something bright 
and steely, and steals into the parlor without a sound. 
Instead of going straight to the bed she crouches in 
her corner, to brood, perhaps, over the deed of dark- 
ness she is about to do, or it may be to count the cost. 
She will be blamed in the morning, no doubt — is she 
not blamed for everything that goes wrong ? she will 
be beaten nearly to death — quite to death, perhaps, by 
Giles Sleaford. Well, she does not care. They will 
hang him for it, If she were quite sure about the 
hanging, she feels she would be whipped to death 
without a groan. 

The clock striking three arouses her. It is time to 
be up and doing — in an hour or two the boys will bf 
down. Indecision forms no part of her character* 


54 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 


Bhe gets lip at once, and approaches the bed with bei 
formidable weapon. It is the family shears, bright, 
large, keen as a razor, and her object is — not to cutoff 
Olga Vcntnor’s head, but — her hair ! 

Olga is awake, is staring at her, frozen with fright. 
She has not counted on that, and with a snarl of baffled 
malice, she plunges her hand in the golden tresses, and 
uplifts the scissors. But in the twinkling of an eye 
the child springs from the bed, rushes from the room, 
shrieking like a mad thing. There is a heavy fall, the 
Bound of startled voices up-stairs, and opening doors. 
In that moment the scissors are flung aside. Joanna 
is out of the window, and away like the wind to 
Black’s Dam. 


CHAPTSR Vm. 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 



jHREE miles away from Sleaford’s Farm, and 
nearly four from Ventnor Villa, there 
stands the stateliest mansion in all the 
country round, the pride, the marvel, the 
how place of Brightbrook. It is down on the coast ; 
he waves of the Atlantic wash up to the low sea wall 
..hat divides it from a shelving and sandy beach. A 
beautiful beach, of late years known to fame, and 
oiled for all lovers of the quietly picturesque by 
g transformed into a popular watering-place. But 
ese days, fashion and capitalists have not marked 
their own, and Brightbrook Beach is an en* 


raS ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 56 

chanted spot, on whoso fine white sands you may lie 
the long summer day through, lazy, and happy, and 
cool, and watch the sea-gulls swirl overhead, and the 
little, limpid, oily waves wash and whisper up to your 
very feet. 

The thermometer may stand among the hundreds 
elsewhere, down here it is cool as some merman’s grot. 
There are always breezes, and fishing boats, and far- 
off yachts, and forever and forever the beautiful, 
changeful, illimitable sea. Or you may lean over Mr. 
Abbott’s low stone wall in wild weather, the wind 
blowing great guns, both hands clutching your hat, 
and watch with awe-stricken eyes the spirit of the 
storm abroad oa the waters. The great beetling 
green waves leap up like Titans, dashing their frothy 
spray in your face ; the roar is as the crash of Niagara. 
Fascinated, you may stand for hours watching this 
war of the gods, and go home, at last, inclined to 
opine that Brightbrook Beach in a storm is even more 
bewitching than Brightbrook Beach in summer sweet- 
ness and sunshine, and to envy John Abbott, Esquire, 
his handsome home, his beautiful wife, his pretty little 
daughter, his colossal bank account, and, most of all, 
thfit grand old ocean lying there for his perpetual 
pJftasure, a thing of beauty and a joy forever. 

If Mr. Abbott’s taste in a site is good, his style of 
architecture lies open to question. It is a house as 
much like an old Baronial Hall as a genuine American 
country-house can ever make up its mind to be. 
What Mr. Abbott’s idea in building a castle is, is 
known to Mr. Abbott only. A grand Elizabethan 
with turrets, and peaked gables, and quaint. 


56 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 

vine-clad stone porches, and painted windows, with 
stone muUions. 

It is new, and it looks three hundred years old at 
least, and reflects some of its seeming grandeur and 
antiquity upon its master, perhaps. And Mr. Abbott 
needs it. He is painfully new. He would like a moat 
and a drawbridge, and battlements, and a donjon keep, 
and a man-at-arms on the outer bastion, and he could 
have afforded them all. For, though extremely new, 
he is oppressively rich. He is so rich that his wealth 
forces itself upon you aggressively. You are disposed 
to resent it as a direct personal affront ; no one man 
can logically have a right to so many millions in bank 
shares, and bonds, and stocks, to w'hole blocks in New 
York and Philadelphia, to the larger half of all 
Brightbrook, to such gorgeous furniture, inlaid with 
precious woods and metals, to pictures worth treble 
their weight in gold, to sculpture such as no one short 
of a prince, or grand duke, or Yankee billionaire can 
possess, to horses shod with the shoes of swiftness, to 
wines like molten gold and rubies, to diamonds — 
Koh-i-noors, says Brightbrook, every gem of them. It 
is true Mrs. Abbott seldom wears these rich and rare 
ornaments, never, indeed, in Brightbrook, but she has 
them all the same, and then, in some ways, Mrs. 
Abbott IS a very — well, peculiar lady. 

For that matter, Mr. Abbott is a — peculiar — gen- 
tleman also. His servants say so, with bated breath, 
and furtive glances behind them ; all Brightbrook 
says it, as he rides by, monarch of all he surveys, 
pompous and stout. Colonel Ventnor says it with a 
shrug, and holds rather aloof from him, although his 
claret and cigars are, like Casar’s wife, above ro' 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 


57 


proach, and he is the only man of quite his own 
standing in the place. The two ladies are much 
better friends, despite the valetudinarian state of the 
one, and the — peculiarity of the other. 

When Brightbrook points out to the stranger and 
pilgrim within its gates the wonderful castellated 
mansion known as Abbott Wood, and expatiates on 
its manifold beauties, it never fails to add a word of 
the still greater beauty of Mr. Abbott’s wife. She 
was a widow, Brightbrook will tell you confidentially, 
when Mr. Abbott married her, a Mrs. Lamar, widow 
of a young Southern officer, and mother of a six-year- 
old boy, very poor, very proud, with the bluest of all 

blue Virginian blood in her veins, and a pedigree 

“ Oh ! if you come to pedigree,” says Brightbrook, 
with suppressed triumph, “ therms a line of ancestry, 
if you like I Dates back to the days of Charles the 
Second, and Pocahontas, and nobody knows how long 
before. But she was poor, quite destitute, they do 
say, after the war, and — and Mr. Abbott came along, 
immensely rich, as you may see, and — she married him.” 

“ But you do not mean to say,” cries the tourist, a 
little scandalized, “that that was why she married 
him. Because she was quite destitute, and he was 
immensely rich ?” 

“And a very good reason,” responds Brightbrook, 
stoutly, “ only — they do say, he and she don’t quite hit 
it off as — well, you understand I She’s a great lady, 
and very proud — oh ! most uncommonly proud, we 

must say, and he ” 

A shrug is apt to finish the sentence. 

“ And he is not,” supplements the stranger. “ No, 
1 ghould think not, when he marrios any man’s widow 

r 


58 THK A.BBOTTR OF ABBOTT WOOD* 

on these tenns, and consents to be snubbed forevei 
after. You say she snubs him? flings her genealogical 
tree in his face ; invokes the spirit of PocahoniAs and 
the dead and gone Lamar, and all that sort of thing 
Oh, d>*j!ar no 1” cries out Brightbrook, shocked, 
oothin-ii m ^Ji-e kind. Much too proud a lady foi 
lii; i* r^^?;xsort. Oniy — only she has a crushing 

Wi, with h:ir — noi 08 h^vrseif like this I” 
t dr 3 ,w *rsei^ ■ .ir j '^p, folds its 
arms dmgs its - .ooks at you out 

of A pa? I of ^-yQ: says a word, you 

know» bet sweep'** out o;. /he room, like an empress 
going to the block* That lort of thing puts a man 
down, you know. And then Mr. Abbott, he 
curses.*’ 

“ Ah I curses, does he ?” says the tourist, laughing. 
Weil, that shows be is human, at any rate. I 
think 1 might curse myself under such provocation. 
The sweeping, empress sort of style must be deucedly 
uncomfortable in a wife.” 

“And when he cur.ses, Mrs. Abbott looks more 
l«^4ighty and scornful than ever. SheV a very pious 
la-1 Abbott.” 

** ^ i should think so ; pride and piety make a 
wmibin tioo — a pleasant curricle for any man 
to diive. this magnificent dame condescends to 
go tfO the village church on Sundays, and kneel among 
you rustics, in perfumed silks and /aoes, and call her- 
self a miserable sinner? Or,” seeing Brightbrook 
vigorously shaking its head, “ perhaps she stoops still 
lower, and patronizes the camp-meetings for which 
your fine woods are sc famous? No agv:^| Then 
whero fbf go 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT VTOOD. 


56 


Bless you !” cries Brightbrook, exultingly, “ she 
has a chapel of her own 1 And a chaplain. And an 
aitai. And vestments. And candles — wax And in- 
cense. And a little boy in a purple silk dress, and a 
white lace overdress. And the Rev. Mr. Lamb comes 
down every Saturday night, and stays until Monday 
morning. They say she goes to confession to him. I 
shouldn’t think Mr. Abbott would like that. Bless 
you, she’s high — ever so high — what’s that other word 
now ” 

“ Ritualistic — Anglican ?” 

‘‘ Thanks, yes. And the chapel, St. Walburga’s, is 
A wonder ; you really must go over and see it. The 
carved wood from Belgium, and the painted windows, 
with most beautiful saints, and the gold candlesticks, 
and the floor of inlaid wood, and carved stalls along 
the sides, and no pews ! The pulpit, they say, is a 
work of art, and cost a little fortune abroad. Artists 
and that come down from the city and rave about it. 
Oh ! you really must go to St. Walburga’s on Sunday.” 

“ I really think I must,” says the stranger and pii' 
^rim, and ver^ likely he goes, iio finds the park 
thrown open ; it actually is a park of many acres, with 
green bosky glades where de-;r disport, sunlit terraces, 
where peacocks strut, statues gleaming palely amid 
green gloom, flashiu'^^ fountains, casting high, cool jets, 
velvet lawns, all dotted with brilliant beads of flowers, 
rose gardems, where every rose that grows blooms in 
fragrant sweetness, and, best of all, with thick wood- 
land of maple and hemlock, beech and elm, willow 
and chestnut sloping down to the very sea. Rustic 
seats are everywhere, cool avenues tempt the unwary, 
with ftrebipg boughs meeting overhead, and shutting out 


§0 THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOO». 

the hot summer Sunday afternoon sun, artificial lakei 
spanned by miniature bridges, and tiny gondolas, fism 
ponds, where swans float, and gold and silver beauties 
sparkle. There is a gate-lodge that is a very bower of 
sweetbriar and climbing pink roses. All this loveli- 
ness is thrown open to Brightbrook every Sunday, and 
nothing pleases the master of Abbott Wood better 
than to see his grounds filled with wondering, admir- 
ing, well-dressed people. He comes out among these 
faithful retainers, nearly all his tenants, and patronizes 
them blandly and oppressively. 

Strains of music float from the painted windows of 
St. Walburga’s, and you are expected to assist at 
“ vespers,” as a delicate attention to my lady. If you 
are a city stranger, you will most probably be singled 
out by the watchful eye of Mr. Abbott, and taken 
through the house. You will see armor and stags’ 
heads in the hall — a hall wide enough to drive the pro- 
verbial “ coach-and-four ” through, a great carved chim- 
ney-piece with a coat-of-arms. It is the heraldic de- 
vice of Mrs. Abbott’s family, and it is everywhere, 
emblazoned in the panes, in the wood-work, on the 
covers of the books. The rooms are all lofty, frescoed 
or satin-draped, filled with objects of “bigotry and 
virtue,” — the furniture — but the pen of an upholsterer, 
or a Jenkins, would be required to describe that 
^here are rooms in blue satin, rooms in luby Telvet, 
»*^omg in amber reps, rooms in white and gold, a libra- 
ry all rose-red and dark oak, a picture-galleiy with 
portraits of the present house of Abbott, master and 
mistress, Mr. Geoffrey, and Miss Leonora. There ai« 
flowers, birds, and beauty, and brilliance every 
where. 


•THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 

You go into the chapel, and its dim religioLS light 
soothes your dazzled eyes and excited senses. The or- 
gan is playing — my lady herself is organist — some soft 
Mozartian melody. Up in the pulpit, that costly an- 
tique work of art and oak, kneels the Reverend Igna- 
tius Lamb, in surplice and stole, his eyes closed, his 
hands clasped, in an ecstasy ! He is suspected of a 
leaning Rome ward, but it certainly does not extend 
to his nose, which is snub. A pretty, curly-haired boy 
in the purple silk and snowy laces of acolyte, stands 
slowly swinging his censer, mce Master Geoffrey Lamar, 
retired. Geoffrey Lamar is there, though, a strong- 
looking young fellow of sixteen or so, with close- 
cropped dark hair, a sallow complexion, and a rather 
haughty-looking face. He has not inherited his 
mother’s beauty — he is by no means a handsome boy. 
By his side, very simply dressed, in dotted muslin, 
sits bis half-sister. Miss Leonora Abbott, a tiny fairy 
of eight, with a dark, piquant face, dark loose hair, 
the little young lady of the house, sole child of John 
Abbott, millionaire. Sole child, but not one whit 
more to him than his wife’s son, the scion of the dead 
and blue-blooded Lamar. It is well known that Ab- 
bott Wood and half his fortune are to be his, that he 
looks to this lad to perpetuate the family greatness — 
to merge his own obscurity in the blaze of the Lamar 
brillianoe, and become the ancestor of a long line 
of highly-fed, highly-bred, highly-wed descendants. 
Every man has his hobby, this is John Abbott’s. He 
is self-made, he takes a boisterous, Bounderby sort of 
pride in proclaiming it. He is an uneducated man, 
that speaks for itself, it is unnecessary to proclaim it. 
He k a vuliptar man, a loud -talking, deep-drinkmg 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WCOH. 


ag^Tesriive, pompous, purse-proud man. His wife’i 
guests were wont to shrug their shoulders, suppress 
signihcant smiles, or protrude delicate under hps as 
they listened. And seeing this, Mrs. Abbott has given 
up society, that super-refined pride of hers has been 
excoriated a hundred times a day by the rich clod she 
calls husband. She has renounced society, buried her 
self in the solitude of Abbott Wood, with only her 
books, her music, her easel, her children, for company. 
She sees as little of Mr. Abbott as possible ; she is 
always perfectly polite to him, she defers to his wishes, 
and is a supremely miserable woman. Even her piety 
fads to comfort her, she is very much in earnest, 
poor lady, with her pretty, picturesque, lady-like relig- 
ion. She works altar-cloths and copes, with gorgeous 
silks, and bullion, and gold fringe ; she reads her high- 
church novels ; she plays Mozart in the twilight, and 
sings in Gregorian chant in the chapel, but all in vain — 
that settled unrest and misery leaves her not. “ Dona 
nobis pacem ” sounds from her lips like the very cry 
of a soul in pain, but peace is not given. She despises 
her husband, his loud vulgarity and blatant purse-pride, 
while her own heart is eaten to the core with that other 
pride which the world tolerates and honors, pride of 
birth and long lineage, and which, perhaps, in the eyes 
of Him before whom kings are dust, is quite as odious 
as the other. Perhaps that peace she seeks so despair- 
ingly might be found, if she hearkened a little to the 
text from which the Reverend Ignatius Is fond of 
preaching, “Learn cf Me, for I am meek and humble 
of heart, and ye shall find rest for your souls.” 

For Mr. Abbott — well, he is sharper-sighted thai 
hii wife gives him credit for, in spite of chill defer 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 


63 


etiee and proud politeness, he knows that she scorns 
and disdains — that she has scorned and disdained him 
from the first. And he resents it, silently, passion- 
ately, He loves his wife. She would open those dark, 
lustrous eyes cf hers in wondering contempt, if she 
knew how well. But she does not know it — the scorn 
in her eyes would drive him to murder her Tilmost, and 
he know'S tliat scorn would he there. Coarse braggart 
and rich ripstart he may be, but he would 5ay down 
that strong life of his for her sake. And that she is 
colder than marble, less responsive than ice, ts it the 
bottom of more than half these fierce outbursts of 
anger that so disgust and repel her, Atihott W ood is 
4 roomy mansion, and more thaa one skeleton abides 
therein. 

It has been said that something of mystery hangs 
over, and makes inr^tesling, t he mister of the house. 
Colonel Ventnor, nding with him one cImv, v ^ a 
little corner of that dark ouriaiu which shroud's ms 
past, lifted. It, was at the time Ventnor Villa was 
being built, Mr. Abbott, glad of such a neighbor, 
bad interested himself a good deal in the proceedings, 
and saved the colom.l a number of trips down from 
the city. Colonel Ventnor, a refined man in all his 
instincts, did not much like the rough-and-ready lord 
of Abbou Wood, but he was obliged by his good- 
nature, and accepted it. It had happened some four 
years before this memorable evening on which little 
Olga loses herself in the woods. 

It is a dark and overcast autumn evening, threat- 
ening rain. Leaving the villa and the workmen, 
they ride slowly along the high-road, Mr. Abbott de- 
tailing, with the gusto customary with him when talk* 


64 


TUB ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOB. 


ing of himself, some of his adventures as a San Fran 
cisco broker and speculator in *49. Suddenly his b()rs€ 
fhies as a man springs forward from under a tree, ami 
•lands directly before him. 

“ Blast you !” roars Mr. Abbott, “ what the 

are you about ? You nearly threw me, you beggar . 
What d’ye mean by jumping before a gentleman’s 
horse like this ?” 

“ Beg pardon, sir,” says the man, with a grin and 
a most insolent manner, “ didn’t go for to do it, Mr, 
Abbott. Don’t use your horsewhip, sir,” for Mr. Ab- 
bott has raised it ; you might be sorry to strike an 
old friend.” 

He removes his ragged hat as he speaks, and the 
fading light falls full upon him. John Abbott reels 
in his saddle, the whip drops from his hand, his florid 
face turns livid. 

“ It is Sleaford !” he gasps, “ by G 1” 

Colonel Ventnor looks at him. He is a gentleman 
in the best sense of the much-abused word — he swears 
not at all. Then he looks at the tramp. He is a 
•warth-skinned, black-looking vagabond, as perfect a 
type of the loafer and blackguard, he thinks, as he 
has ever seen. 

“ I will ride on, Mr. Abbott,” he says, quietly ; 
much obliged for your good-nature about those men. 
Good-night.” 

“ Stay I hold on 1” cries Mr. Abbott. The color 
comes back with a purple rush to his face, his eyes 
^ook wild and dilated. “ I — I do — I have known this 
fellow in California. He’s a poor devil that used to 
work for me. I haven’t anything to say to him in 
private Tou needn’t hurry o«i his account, you know.* 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD, 


65 


** Oh, certainly not,” responds Colonel Ventnor. 
*• Still, as there is a storm brewing, I think it will be 
weL to get to the hotel at once, and so avoid a 
drenching. I will see you ag{»,„n before I return to 
town.” 

He lifts his hat and rides away, but not before he 
has heard the hoarse laugh of the tramp, as he lays 
his hand with the same impudent familiarity on Mr. 
Abbott’s bridle. 

Next day, when he returns to the villa, he finds that 
gentleman waiting for him, and issuing sonorous orders 
to the masons. He is almost offensive in his ofiicious 
friendliness and voluble explanations. 

“ A poor beggar, sir, that I knew out in ’Frisco. 
Knew all sorts out there — hundreds of the great un- 
washed, miners, gamblers, blacklegs, all sorts. Had 
to, you know, in my business. Sometimes made some 
of them useful — a man has to handle dirty tools in 
most trades, you know. This fellow was one of them. 
Sleaford his name is — Giles Sleaford, a harmless 
beggar, but lazy as the deuce. Think I must do some- 
thing for him for old acquaintance sake. Got a large 
family, too — lots of boys and girls — quite a ‘ numerous 
father,’ as they say. Where’s the good of being as 
rich as Rothschild if a man’s not to do good with it ? 

D it all ! let us help one another, I say, and 

when we see an unfortunate chap down, let us set him 
on his legs again. I think I’ll let Sleaford have the 
Red Farm ; there’s nobody there, and it’s a capital 
bit of land. He wasn’t half a bad sort ; there were a 
devilish deal worse fellows than Black Giles out in San 
Francisco.” 

Colonel Ventnor assents politely, and keeps his own 


66 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 


opinion of Mr. Abbott’s dark friend to himself. Mi 
Abbott has been looking him in the eye, In a 7ery 
marked manner, during this little speech. It is a 
glance that says plainly enough, “ This is my versior 
of the affair — I expect you to believe it, or take the 
consequences.” But Colonel Ventnor’s quiet high 
breeding is too much for poor Mr. Abbott always. It 
puts him in a silent rage, much as his wife’s calm, up- 
lifted repose of manner does. 

“ Curse them all !” he thinks ; “ these aristocrats 
are all alike. Look down on a man as the dirt under 
their feet, if he ain’t brought up to parley voo fransey 
and jabber German and that. And they can do it 
with a look too, without a word of blaster or noise. I 
defy any man alive to stand up btifore the missis when 
she’s in one of her white, speechless rages, and look 
her in the eye. I wish I knew how they do it.” 

He sighs, takes off his hat, scratches his head per- 
plexedly with his big, brown, brawny hand, and slaps 
it on again a little more defiantly cocked than before. 
“ And now here’s Black Giles,” he thinks, gloomily, 
“ as if I hadn’t enough on my mind without him. I 
wonder how much he knows — I wonder 

He mounts his horse and rides off, pondering 
gloomily, in the direction of the Red Farm. It was a 
different-looking place m those days to what it became 
later. Mr. Abbott was a very thorough landlord, no 
tenant might wreck and ruin any farm of his. This 
Red Farm, so called from the color of the house, and 
the great maples burning scarlet about it, was one of 
the choicest bits of land in the State, and in high cul- 
tivation. And here the Sleaford family came, two 
boys, three girls, the youngest a mere child then, bujj 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 


67 


a weird-looking, cowed starveling — and squatted. It 
oonld not be called anything else ; Giles Sleaford 
laughed from the first at the notion of his farming, or 
even making the pretext. The boys were like wild 
Indians — they fished, shot, snared birds and rabbits, 
stole melons, robbed orchards, were a nuisance gener- 
ally, and let the farm look after itself. The girls were 
of the same ne’er-do-well stamp, boisterous young 
hoidens, handsome ‘‘ prize animal ” sort of damsels, 
with flashing black eyes, and impudent retorts for all 
who accost them. The neighbors wonder — why does 
Mr. Abbott, that most particular gentleman, let this 
wild lot ruin the Red Farm, and bear it like the meek- 
est of men ? Why does Giles Sleaford always have 
well-filled pockets, good horses and clothes, whether 
he works or idles ? They ask the question more than 
once, and he laughs loud and long. 

“ Why does he ?” he cries. “ Lord love you, that’s 
little of what he would do for me. He loves me like 
a brother. He’s an uncommon fine gentleman, ain’t 
he ? and got a lovely place, and a handsome wife — so I 
hear. I haven’t been there to leave my card yet. Why 
does he ? Bless your souls, he would turn out of his 
big house and give it to me, if I coaxed him hard 
enough.” 

Brightbrook does not know what to make of it. It 
whispers a good deal, and looks furtively at the rich 
man riding by. What secret has he in his life, that 
Giles Sleaford is paid to keep ? He looks like a man 
who might have a dark record behind him. And what 
would Mrs. Abbott say if she knew ? But Mrs. Ab- 
bott does not know, gossip does not reach her ; she 
Jives in a rarefied atmosphere of her own, with her 


68 


THE ABBOTT S OF ABBOTT WOOD. 


dainty work, her ornaments, her children, and the pie 
beian name of Sleaford penetrates it not. 

And so years go on. The Red Farm goes to ruin. 
Colonel Ventnor and family come with the primroses, 
and depart with the swallows. Abbott Wood grow* 
more beautiful with every passing year, and the skele 
tons in its closets grin silently there still, when it fails 
out that this summer evening Olga Ventnor goes 
astray in the woods, and before ten at night all 
Brightbrook is up and in quest. 

)|i iH ^ 4^ 

“She may be at Abbott Wood,” Frank Livingston 
suggests — Frank Livingston, calm and unflurried in 
the midst of general dismay. It is a theory of thii 
young man’s that things are sure to come right in tht 
end, and that nothing is worth bothering about ; so 
though a trifle anxious, he is calm. “ She spoke tt 
me,” he adds, with a twinge of remorse, “ this after 
noon about taking her there. Promised to go ove 
and play croquet with Leo^ind Geoff.” 

Colonel Ventnor waits for no more. He dashe 
spurs into his red roan steed, and gallops like a mad 
man to Abbott Wood. On the steps of the grea 
portico entrance he sees the master of the mansior 
smoking a cigar, and looking flushed and angry. A 
domestic white squall has just blown over — not witl 
the “ missis ;” there are never squalls, white or blacli 
in that quarter — with one of the kitchen-maids, wh< 
had done, or undone, something to offend him. II 
has flown into a tremendous passion with the fright 
ened woman, cursing up hill and down dale with 
heartiness and fluency that would have done credit U 
that past-master of the art of blasphemy, Sleaford him 


THE AlBBOTTS of ABBOTT WOOD. 


69 


■elf. The fact is, his wife had put him out at dinner, 
as she has a way of doing, and his slumbering wrath 
has had to find vent somewhere. Now the fuming 
volcano is calming itself down in the peaceful night 
air, with the help of a soothing cigar. lie stares to 
see the colonel ride up, all white and breathless. 

‘‘ Little Olga ? No, she wasn’t there — hadn’t been 
— was perfectly «ure of it. Lost ! — the colonel did 
not say so ! How was it ?” 

In a few rapid sentences Colonel Ventnor tells him. 
Mr. Abbott listens with open mouth. 

“ By jingo ! poor little lass ! He will join the hunt 
immediately. That French woman ought to have her 
neck wrung. He would be after the colonel in a 
twinkling.” 

And he is — mounted on his powerful black horse. 
And all night long the woods are searched, and morn- 
ing comes, and finds the missing one still missing. 
The sun rises, and its first beams fall upon John 
Abbott, tired and jaded, coming upon Sleaford’s, It 
is a place he avoids ; he looks at it now with a scowl, 
and for a moment forgets what he is in search of. No 
one has thought of looking here ; neither does he. 
He is about to turn away, when the house door opens, 
and Giles Sleaford, unwashed and unshorn, comes 
forth. 

“ Hullo !” he says, roughly ; “ you ! What may 
yaw want this time o’ day ?” 

‘‘We are looking for the colonel’s little girl. You 
haven’t seen her, I suppose ?” says Mr. Abbott, quite 
civilly. 

“ Haven’t I ?” growls Black Giles ; “ that’s all ycit 
know about it I have seen her. She’s here^ and I 


70 


THE ABBOTTS OE ^lBBOTT WOOD. 


wish she was anywhere else, keeping honest people 
from their sleep. She’s in there fast enough if yon 
want her, Why doesn’t her own dad come after her ? 
I should think yott had enough to do to mind your 
own young ’uns, and your wife, from all I hear.” 

He laughs a hoarse, impudent laugh, that brings 
the choleric blood into John Abbott’s face, and a 
demon into either eye. But, wonderful to relate, he 
restrains himself. 

Other members of the hunt ride up now, and it is 
discovered that little Miss Olga is very ill, and nearly 
out of her senses — why, nobody knows. She woke up 
in the night, Lora supposes, and finding herself alone, 
took fright, and ran screaming out into the passage, 
and there fell, striking her head against the bottom 
stair, and hurting herself badly. Whether from the 
hurt or the fright, she is at present in a very bad way, 
and there is not a moment to be lost in removing her. 
Frank is of the party. He takes his insensible little 
cousin in his arms and kisses her, with tears of genu- 
ine remorse in his boyish eyes. If he had gone with 
her as she wished, this would never have happened. 
Now she may never ask him for anything in this 
world again. As he carries her out, a small figure, 
looking like a walking scarecrow, with wild hair, pale 
face, torn skirts, bare legs and feet, comes slowly and 
sullenly forward, and watches him and his burden 
with lowering, scowling glance. 

“ Here you, Joanna !” calls out one of the Sleaford 
girls, sharply. ‘‘ Come into the house, and help redd 
up. Come in, this minute !” with a stamp of her foot, 
“if you don’t want a little moie of what you got last 
night.” 


THE ABBOTTS OF ABBOTT WOOD. 


71 


The girl makes no reply. She slowly obeys^ but 
her eyes linger to the last on Frank Livingston and 
his cousin. All the long light curls fall over his 
shoulder, the poor little fever-flushed face is hidden 
on his breast. 

“One of yours, Sleaford?” says Mr. Abbott, gra* 
ciously, looking after Joanna. “ I didn’t know you 
had one so young.” 

There is nothing in this speech apparently to pro- 
voke laughter, nor is it a time for mirth, but such is 
its effect on Mr. Sleaford. He opens his huge mouth, 
and emits such a roar that tbe whole group turn and 
look at him indignantly. The joke is so exquisite 
that he heeds not, but laughs until the tears start from 
his bleary eyes. 

“ Glad you find me so funny,” says Mr. Abbott, 
huflily. “You ain’t always in such good humor this 
time of morning, are you?” And then, as Mr. Slea- 
ford’s only response is to take out his pipe, and indulge 
in another fit of hilarity, he turns and rides indig- 
nantly away in the rear of his party. 

Mr. Giles Sleaford, left alone in his retreat, smokes 
between his expiring gasps of laughter, and solilo- 
quizes : 

“‘Is she one of yours, Sleaford ?’ And ‘I didn’t 
know you had one so young !’ O Lord ! I haven’t 
laughed so much in a month of Sundays. Old Jack 
Abbott don’t often make jokes, maybe, but when h« 
does they’re rum ’uns. ‘Didn’t know I had one so 
young !’ It’s the best thing I’ve heerd this many a 
day — I’m dashed if it ain’t.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 

story they tell is one that won’t wash, 
iys Frank Livingston. “ I appeal to 
on, Geoff. The notion of meeting a 
-ild girl in the woods, and being half 
scalped when Dan Sleaford finds her ! Then, when 
they have her safely housed and asleep, of that same 
wild creature coming down the chimney ” 

“ Down the chimney ?” exclaims Geoffrey Lamar, 
amazed. 

“ Oh ! well, something very like it, and going at 
her again with uplifted dagger. It’s a fishy sort of 
yarn as they tell it. But,” adds Frank, refiectively, 
“ it is a peculiarity of Dan Sleaford’s stories that they 
all have a piscatorial flavor.” 

The two young gentlemen are pacing arm in arm 
under the horse chestnuts surrounding Ventnor Villa. 
They form a contrast as they slowly saunter there — 
young Livingston two years the elder, tall, slender, 
very handsome, quick, volatile, restless ; young Lamar 
shorter, stouter, with a face that even at fifteen has a 
look of thought and power — a mouth with that square 
cut at the corners that betokens sweetness as well as 
strength, steady gray eyes, close-cut dark hair, an^ 
the careless, high-bred air of one born to the purple. 

“ It does sound rather oddly,” he remarks ; “ but 
what motive have they for telling an untruth ? And 
something has frightened hbr, that is patent enough. 
Poor little Olga I” 



THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


73 


** They’re a queer lot, these Sleafords, ’ says Frank, 
reflectively — “a most uncommonly queer lot. And 
there’s a mystery of some sort hanging over the head 
of the house. You don’t mean to say, old fellow, 
that, living in Brightbrook so long, you don’t knov 
any of them — eh ?” 

“ W ell, in point of fact, you see, I do noC .ive in 
Brightbrook much. I spend Christmas and New 
Year weeks down here, and either the July or August 
of every long — but that is all. One month I give to 
yachting, and then, of course, all the rest of the year 
is spent at college. You are here a good deal more 
than I am, and Abbott Wood is so out of the way. 
As it happens, I have never even heard of these peo- 
ple until to-day.” 

Frank stares at him, then straight ahead, and 
whistles. 

“Well, that is I say — you don’t mind my 

asking, do you ? have you never heard your governor 
speak of them ?” 

“ Never.” 

“ Because Black Giles seems to know Mm most re- 
markably well. Says he used to be a pal of his, long 
ago, out in San Francisco.” 

“ What ?” 

Yes, I know it’s a queer statement. And up the 
village they say ” 

He pauses. A deep line graves itself between 
Geoffrey Lamar’s eyebrows. His step-father is a sen- 
sitive subject with him. 

“Well,” he says, rather coldly, “they say — what?” 

“ I wouldn’t mention this sort of thing if you were 
Mr. Abbott’s son,” goes on Frank, magnanimously, 

4 


74 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


‘‘but it is different you know. Giles Sleaford, when 
half seas over, has a way of talking — nasty, swearing 
sort of way that makes a fellow long to pitch him out 
of the window — of your governor. Red Jack Abbott 
—•so the disrespectful old bloke calls him — used to be 
out there in San Francisco the Damon to his Pythias. 
But never mind,” says Frank, pulling himself up, “you 
don t like the subject ; beg pardon for introducing it, 
but I am such a fellow to say whatever comes upper- 
most. All these returned Californians have a shady 
sidewalk in their past pathway, if we only knew it, I 
dare say.” 

Geoffrey Lamar does not seem to derive the cheerful 
consolation Frank intends from this philosophical 
remark. A frown contracts his forehead, and there 
is a pause. 

“ You know those people very well,” he says, after 
that full stop. 

“ Oh ! uncommon. I’m Vami de la maison — I have 
the run of the whole house, like the family cat. It’s 
uncommonly jolly. I’ll fetch you some evening, if you 
like We have musical and danceable reunions. Jud 
plays the fiddle, Dan the flute, Lora the banjo, and 
they all can sing. Lora gives me lessons on the 
banjo !” Here Frank tries to look grave, but suddenly 
explodes into a great laugh. “ And we play euchre 
and seven-up, and I lose all my loose cash regularly. 
It’s the best fun going. George Blake comes, and lots 
more. I would have asked you long ago, only you are 
such a solemn old duffer, and of too aristocratic a 
stomach to digest such vulgar doings. But if you’ll 
come I’ll present you. They’ll kow-tow before you, 
for are you not, oh, potent young seigneur, the lord of 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 75 

the land, and you shall have a good time. Not just at 
once, of course ; must wait until the princess, poor 
little ducky, is on her little pins again before I go any- 
where.” 

It will be observed that Mr. Frank’s style cl con- 
Tersation is exceedingly degage — quite free and easy, 
and of the slang a trifle slangy. The prince of wild 
Joanna’s imagination has a most unprincely way oi 
expressing himself. 

“ Say you’ll come. Get rid of that owd-like face, 
and stop trying to look like your own grandfather. 
What a fellow you are, Lamar ! I would mope myself 
into the horrors if I lived as you do. Say you’ll come 
to the very next Sleaford swarry. We have clam 
bakes after the concert and the valse a deux-temps 
codfish chowder, barbecued rabbit, and sich — every 
thing highly genteel and en regie. And you can w’^asb 
it down with whisky ad libitum, or you can join the 
ladies in cider-cup and bottled lager, if you prefer such 
effeminate tipple. You will come ?” 

“ Yes, I will come,’ Geoffrey answers, laughing. 
“ These are attractions not to be declined. I say ! 
stop a moment, Livingston — whom have we here ?” 

A brilliant, black-eyed, buxom brunette, dressed in 
the loudest possible style, pink, and purple, and yel- 
low all swearing at each other in her costume, ad 
vances toward them, a green parasol shading her 
already over-ripe charms from the too ardent glances 
of the sun. 

“ What !” cries Frank, falling back and striking an 
attitude. “ Do these eye?5 deceive me ? That form— 
that smile —that green umbrella ! ’Tis she ! Lora . 
light of my eyes, beloved of my soul, whither away 


76 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


in such haste with the thermometer up in the nineties 
What ’ still silent ! Speak, loveliest of thy sex- 
speak, ere I perish I Whither goest thou in such 
haste 

Miss Lora Sleaford furls her green parasol, not at 
all discomposed by this impassioned address, and ad- 
ministers a gentle rebuke with the nozzle across 
Frank’s shapely nose. 

“ Don’t be a donkey,” is her retort. ‘‘ I suppose, 
considering I lost a night’s sleep with that little girl, 
and had a sight of trouble with her every way, I have 
a right to walk up and ask how she gets along. Why 
weren’t you there last night ?” 

‘‘Pressing business engagements, over which I had 
no control, my dearest Lora ; biit I see those beauteous 
orbs are riveted on the manly countenance of my 
friend. He is perishing for an introduction — was 
begging me with tears in his eyes, just before you came 
up, to obtain him the entree to Sleaford’s, and the ac- 
quaintance of Sleaford’s two lovely daughters. Come 
here, Geoff, a moment, will you. Miss Lora Sleaford, 
allow me to present to you my young friend, Geoffrey 
Valandigham Lamar.” 

Miss Sleaford bows gracefully, really gracefully, 
smiles radiantly — black eyes, red cheeks, coral lips, 
dazzling white teeth, all a-sparkle together. She evi- 
dently takes Frank’s chaff as a thing of course, and is 
perfectlv well used to that style of address. Geoffrey 
laughs, but reddens a little, with some of that becom- 
ing boyish bashfulness that Frank Livingston has 
never known. 

“ Blush not, my Geoffrey !” says that young man of 
the world, with an encouraging slap on the baok^ 


THE MI83E8 SLEAFOED AT HOME. 77 

“Miss Lora’s charms floor us all at first but we get 
used to ’em after a time. So will you. Don’t be 
ashamed of yourself — speak to her prettily— -she’s net 
half so dignified, bless you, nor unapproachable, as 
she looks. So you’re gMng to the house, are you, 
Lora ? That is a very pretty attention on your part. 
The little one is asleep now. Doctor says she’ll pull 
through. But what a queer go it all is, this cock-and- 
bull story Dan tells, about a wild girl, and the rest of 
it 1” 

“ It is true enough. I guess it was our Joanna,” 
replies Lora, complacently adjusting a pair of flat gilt 
bracelets. 

“ You don’t say so ! Joanna ! What a little devil’s 
doll she is, to be sure. Shall we see you home, my 
friend and I, after your call, my Lora ? Nothing 
would give us greater rapture, you know.” 

But Miss Sleaford declines, with a toss of her white 
feathers. She is not going home, she is en route for 
Brightbrook — Dan and the trap are waiting outside 
the gate. And so, with a parting bow and smile, in- 
tended to do deadly execution on young Lamar, Lora 
trips away to the hall door. 

Mrs. Ventnor, looking pale and anxious, receives 
her, and thanks her in very fervent words, and a 
handsome present of jewelry, for her kindness to her 
child. She has summed up Miss Sleaford at a glance, 
and sees she is the type to whom breastpin and brace- 
lets are always acceptable. There is another lady in 
the room, a lady who looks like a queen in a picture, 
Lora thinks, so grand, so stately, so beautiful is she. 
She awes even Miss Sleaford, who is not easily awed. 
It is Mrs. Abbott, she knows ; she has seen her more 


78 


THE MISSES SI.EA.FOED AT HOME. 


than once ; the mother of that dull, piain-'ooking young 
fellcw outside. And yet, though one is beautiful and 
the other almost devoid of beauty, there is a resem 
blance between the two faces, ia the firm mouth and 
proudly-curved chin, in the level, rather chill glance 
of the full dark eye, in the haughty poise of the head 
and shoulders. For you need not look twice at young 
Geoffrey Lamar to know that although he has not 
fallen heir to his mother’s beauty, he has to her pride. 

This grand dame goes up to Lora, and holds out 
one long, slim white hand. 

“We are all your debtors,” she says, in a slow, 
sweet, trained voice. “ In saving our dear little Olga 
you have served us all. If you will accept this, as a 
little token of my great regard ” 

She slips from her finger a circlet of rubies, and 
the quick blood comes into Lora Sleaford’s face. 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” she says, almost bashfully. 
With some trouble she gets the rich hoop on one of 
her fat fingers, and makes her courtesy and departs, 
enchanted with her visit and its results. 

But little Olga is really very ill, and lies tossing 
through the warm July days, fever-flushed, wild-eyed, 
thirsty, wandering. 

Over and over again the wild girl of the woods is 
bending above her, her hands in her hair, her deadly 
weapon poised, and Olga’s shrieks ring through the 
room, and they have to hold her in her bed by force. 
All the long lovely locks are cut off close, cruelly 
close to the poor little burning head, and there are days 
when neither doctor nor nurse can tell how that fierce 
struggle is to end. 

Lora Sleaford comes often te wq sad Joannai 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


79 


crouching like a toad in her corner, hears the story of 
the severed golden hair. A moment after she has 
slipped from her place, and gone out into the night. 
She throws herself down on the dark, dewy grass, and 
>»uries her face in her folded arms. She has got the 
desire of her heart, and she is not glad ; a vague sort 
of remorse and unrest fills her. She did not want to 
kill this little heiress, only to frighten her ; to cut off 
her hair, not to give her a brain fever. If she dies, 
will they hang her — Joanna ? She knows Lora knows, 
and has told others. Well, let them hang her if they 
like ; she did not mean to do it, and hanging cannot 
hurt much worse than horsewhipping. She does not 
care ; she is past care, past hope, past help. It does 
not matter — nothing matters. Better to be dead at 
once, and done with it. But she hopes this little girl 
will not die. And presently — perhaps it is because 
she is all aching and half sick to-night, great tears 
well up, and fill and fall from her eyes, that burn gen- 
erally with so baleful a light. 

She has been beaten by Giles Sleaford, she has had 
her ears boxed by Dan, she has been scolded by Liz, 
«he has worked like a slave since early morning, she is 
wre, and hungry, and hopeless, and sick. 

“I wish I was dead,” she sobs, her face hidden in 
the sweet wet grass. “I wish I had never been born I” 

9ic « ♦ 4c 

But little Olga does not die. She is a delicate 
child, and it requires the best of medical skill and 
ceaseless care to bring her through. There comes 
what is called the crisis — there is a night when no one 
at Ventnor Villa nor Abbott Wood thinks of sleep — a 
night when Frank Livingston paces the wet grass^ 


60 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 

under the summer stars, until day dawn, filled with 
fear and remorse for bis share in the tragedy — a night 
when Colonel Ventnor walks the halls and passages^ 
pale as no one has ever seen him pale before— a night 
when Mrs. Abbott sits through the long mute houis 
clasping the hand of the sick child’s mother in her 
own, and with bated breath watching for that dread 
change. It comes, it passes, and burning heat changes 
to profound slumber, and tossing delirium to gentle 
perspiration, and little Olga is saved ! 

The news flies — it visits many homes, and some 
time that day reaches Sleaford’s, where Lora relates it 
to the family assembled at supper. 

“ So you see, little monkey,” she winds up, address 
ing Joanna, “you ain’t a murderer after all, and won’t 
be hanged this time. But you had better look out, 
and not try that sort of thing again. You mayn’t get 
off so easy another time.” 

“It’s only a question of a year or two — eh, Jo?” 
says Jud Sleaford, tw'eaking the girl’s ear. “You’re 
bound to come to it some day. Of all the little limbs 
of Old Nick I ever met, you top the lot.” 

“I am what you all have made me,” the child 
flashes out, with sudden Are, jerking herself free “ 1 
only wonder I haven’t killed somebody long ago — 
some of yow, I mean. I will yet, if you don’t let me 
alone.” 

A growl from Giles silences her, but in her poor, 
darkened, heathenish little soul that night there is a 
wordless thanksgiving for the news she has heard. 

“ I don’t know what got into me,” she thinks, with 
% feeling akin to compunction ; “ she never did nothin’ 
to me when all’s said and done. I’m sorry 1 scared 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


81 


her ; I’m sorry, yes, I am, that she’s had to lose all he*" 
pretty hair.” 

The other members of the Sleaford family circle 
are relieved also, but for a different reason. 

“ I’m sure I’m glad of it,” Liz says, in a querulous 
tone ; “ the place has been like a grave-yard ever since 
that night ; not a soul’s been near the house, except 
once, George Blake. Can’t we have a dance, Dan, 
some night next week ?” 

“ And tell Frank Livingston, Dan, to fetch young 
Lamar,” suggests Lora. “ I am dying for a dance. I 
saw two or three of the girls down at the Corners 
yesterday, and they were asking when we meant to 
have another spree.” 

“ Dad means to go to the city next Tuesday,” sug- 
gests Jud, “ and as he ain’t particularly useful or orna- 
mental on an occasion like that, I vote we have the 
high jinks while he’s gone.” 

This resolution is unanimously carried by the 
house, and next Tuesday is fixed for the Sleaford fUe. 
The young ladies at once set to work to prepare their 
costumes and decorate the house. Dan issues the invi- 
tations verbally, and all are accepted, including that 
extended to Master Geoffrey Lamar. Frank goes with- 
out saying. With a load off his conscience now that 
Olga is recovering, Frank is in wild high spirits and 
leady for anything. He is generating a great deal of 
steam in these days of Olga’s convalescence, and re- 
quires a safety-valve of some sort. He spends consid - 
erable of his precious time in the sick-room, and it u 
found does Olga more good by his lively presence than 
all the doctor’s stimulants. Geoffrey I amar and littD 
Leo Abbott, too, are there a great deal — their conver 
4 * 


62 THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


BatioQ and company excite the child a little, hut the 
good results counterbalance the evil. Still, four or five 
days of this sort of thing — this state of unnatural 
goodness — has a depressing effect on Frank, and the 
Sleaford “ swarry ” is hailed with rejoicing. 

“ We always present some little delicate offering 
to the young ladies on these occasions,” he remarks to 
Geoffrey, “ not bouquets or floi’al litter of that sort ; 
but something sensible and solid. On various festive 
seasons of this nature, I myself have contributed a 
ham, a plum cake, a turkey, some port wine, and other 
graceful trifles of that sort. The present being a 
special festival, it is my intention to appear in com- 
pany with two imperial quarts of champagne. You, 
young sir, being a lily of the field, and this your d^lmt, 
?/ill be exempt from taxation. The honor of your 
presence is sufficient in itself.” 

“ It rather reminds one of Mrs. Nickleby and the 
I >ve“Stricken old gentleman in small-clothes, who 
threw the vegetable marrows,” says Geoffrey, laugh- 
ing. “ I wonder, Frank, you care to mingle with such 
a lot. You really seem to like it.” 

“And I really do, my aristocratic young friend. 
Human nature in all its varieties interests me in the 
abstract ; human nature, as represented by Miss Lora 
Sleaford, interests me consumedly in particular. A 
romp with that girl is equal to a boxing-match any 
day to put a fellow in condition. Leave all your fas 
tidious notions at Abbott Wood, with your evening 
dress ; put on a shooting- jacket, and come and be 
happy.” 

They are the latest guest^. The old red farm-house 
is all alight when they draw near, the scraping of Jud’i 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


83 


violin is their greeting as they enter. Some half- 
dozen young ladies in gay muslin dresses, gilt brooches 
and chains, and rainbow ribbons are there, and repre- 
sent the Sleaford ‘‘ set ” in Brightbrook. The young 
men are generally of a better stamp, and mustei 
stronger ; the lower rooms look filled to overflowing ' 
as the two late guests arrive. A momentary hush of 
awe greets Geoffrey Lamar, but it does not last ; the 
festive group here assembled are not awed easily or 
long. 

‘‘ For Heaven’s sake do not introduce me to any- 
body !” whispers Geoffrey, nervously, afraid of a 
torrent of Frank’s “ chaff.” “Just let me alone, and 
I’ll drift into port myself.” 

There is one face present that he recognizes, that 
of George Blake, and he seeks refuge by his side. 
Blake is a bright young fellow, poor, but of good con- 
nections ; his mother, a widow, teaches music in the 
village ; George, an only son, is at present beginning 
life in the office of the Brightbrook News. He is 
hbout eighteen or nineteen — indeed, none of the gen- 
tleman are on the aged side of twenty. 

But Mr. Blake is destined for higher duty than 
playing protector — Miss Liz Sleaford sails up, resplen- 
dent in crimson ribbons and cheap jewelry, and claims 
him as her own. They are all in the parlor — Jud, the 
musician, is perched on a sort of pedestal in a cornei 
to be out of the way, as there is not an inch of spare 
room for the coming engagement. The dance is a 
waltz. Frank is spinning round with Lora, as a mat- 
ter of course, Mr. Blake is blessed with Liz, five other 
couples revolve and bump against each other with 
much force, and great good-humor. 


64 


THE MISSES SLEAPOED AT HOME. 


S 

Geoffrey has seen a great many waltzes, b it th« 
energy, the vim, the go ” of this one he has nevei 
•een equaled. And it is a night in early August, 
The full harvest moon is pouring its pale splendor 
over the warm, sweet world without ; the faces of the 
waltzers are redder in ten minutes than the moon was 
when it rose. The living whirlwind flashing past him 
so confuses Geoffrey that he gets up at last, and with 
some difficulty makes his way into the kitchen. This 
apartment has but two occupants — Dan Sleaford, and 
a small, scantily-dressed damsel of twelve, who ap- 
pears to be assistant cook. Dan is the chef. At an 
early age he developed one talent, a talent for clam 
chowder ; many years of cultivation, and that talent 
has soared to the heights of positive genius. No 
‘‘ swarry ” at the Sleaford’s would be considered per- 
fect without a chowder ; it is indeed the pVece de 
resistance of the feast, and is generally the only dish 
contributed by the feast givers. So Dan, in a state 
threatening spontaneous combustion, bends over the 
steaming caldron, from which odors as of Araby the 
Blest are wafted out into the silent night. The 
youthful person with him, in a sulky and slipshod 
manner, is emptying numerous baskets, and arranging 
their contents on the two deal tables, covered, at 
present, with very white cloths, and set out with the 
blue delf, two-pronged forks, and a miscellaneous 
collection of knives. It requires some skill on Mr. 
Sleaford’s part to keep one eye on the chowder, and 
bring it to the pitch of perfection for which he is so 
justly celebrated, and keep the other fixed sternly on 
his small assistant, to see that she purloins none of the 
provisions. On the present occasion the spread if 


THE MISSES SLEAEORD AT HOME. 85 

something gorgeous. There is, first of all, t?e cham- 
pagne — two silver-throated beauties contributed by 
Frank. Then a basket of able-bodied little mutton 
pies, the delicate attentions of Mr. George Blake, who 
has a weakness that way. Then a plum cake, with 
sugar coating an inch thick, the luscious offering of 
the young Brightbrook baker. Then a leg of lamb 
with fixins,” a7iglicey peas and mint sauce. A bottle 
of mixed pickles, a wedge of cheese, a can of sweet 
biscuits and sundries, the tribute by the representa- 
tive of the grocery. In addition, a great earthenware 
pot of tea is steeping for the ladies, while the whisky 
and other spirituous fluids, together with a box of 
cigars, adorn a shelf of the cupboard. These delica- 
cies, with the chowder — always with the chowder — 
comprise a supper fit for Brillat Savarin or the 
Olympian gods. 

Geoffrey takes a seat on the sill of one of the open 
windows, trying to c?itch a breath of cool air, and 
amused in spite of himself by the novelty of all this. 
Dan Sleaford politely essays conversation, but, dis- 
tracted between the chowder and his handmaid, the 
attempts are not brilliant. In spite of his Argus eyes, 
Joanna manages to filch a mutton pie, a handful of 
mixed J)iscuits, and a piece of cheese, and secretes this 
victual ^omewhere about her garments. Geoffrey 
watches the elfish child with curiosity ; she is of a type 
he has never seen before. He has a chivalrous venera- 
tion for all things feminine, engendered by his beauti- 
ful and stately mother ; but this changeling — it is diffi 
cult to imagine her belonging to the same order of 
beings as his sister Leo, or Olga Ventnor. This even- 
ing her best frock, such as it is, has been donned ; the 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


wears shoes and stockings, and an effort has been made 
to brush down the thick shock of darkly-reddish hair. 
He sees the pale, pinched featurei — features not home 
ly in themselves, but spoiled by an expression of set 
tied sullenness and gloom. She looks uncanny, and 
most pathetically unchildlike. When Dan Sleaford 
girds at her, she shrinks as if she expected a blow. 
Her hard life is written in every line of her downcast 
and smileless face. 

Inside, the fun waxes fast and furious ; peals of 
laughter ring out, the house quivers with the tread of 
the dancers. Jud’s fiddle never falters nor fails. A 
schottische follows the waltz, then a quadrille, then a 
polka ; then George Blake performs a solo, the High 
land Fling — a dance which has more genuine fling 
about it, as executed by Mr. Blake, than any of the 
company has ever before beheld. Then there is a cen- 
tre dance. Then Dan Sleaford, crimson of visage, 
presents himself at the parlor door, and in stentorian 
accents announces the chowder and accompaniments, 
and tersely commands them to come on !” 

“ What, Geoff, old boy ! taking lessons in cook- 
ing?” cries Frank, wiping his hot face. ** Phew ! what 
a blazer of a night ! — and, by Jove ! what a girl Lora 
Sleaford is to spin ! There’s more go in her than in any 
human being I ever met. She has been dancing every 
time, and hasn’t turned a hair, while I — I give you my 
word, old fellow, I’m fit to drop.” 

But a bumper of foamy iced lager restores the ex- 
hausted one, and the company sit down to supper. A 
very noisy company it is, a very hungry company too 
and despite the height of the thermometer, boiling 
ehowder, steaming tea, roast lamb, and mutton pies 


THE MISSES SLEAFOHD AT HOME. 


87 


disappear with a celerity that speaks well for the faitt 
the consumers have in their own powerful digestions. 
Every one helps himself and his partner to whatever 
chances to be handiest ; cheese and pickles vanish in 
company, lamb and pound-cake, mutton pies and peas. 
The gentlemen slake their thirst with flagons of lager 
beer, or the more potent whisky ; while the ladies 
genteelly partake of hot tea and iced champagne, one 
, after the other, and with perfect equanimity. 

It is all a wonderful experience to Geoffrey Lamar. 
For Frank — he and George Blake — they are the choice 
spirits of the board. He is amused, a trifle disgusted 
also, it may be, but the hilarity carries him away, and 
he finds himself laughing almost as noisily as the rest. 
Once or twice he glances about for the attendant 
sprite, but she is no longer in waiting ; every one 
helps himself. She is in a corner of the fire-place, as 
though she felt the heat no more than a salamander, 
munching her pilfered dainties, and staring, with 
bright, watchful eyes, at the people before her. No 
one notices her, or thinks of offering her anything to 
eat or drink. The dogs get an occasional morsel 
thrown them — she gets nothing. 

Supper over, dancing is resumed with ardor and 
vigor. There is singing, too, spirited songs with ring- 
ing choruses, in which the strength and lungs of the 
“ swarry ” is thrown. Miss Lora gives them — to a 
banjo accompaniment — “ Sing, oh ! for a brave and 
gallant bark, a brisk and lively breeze,” — which, hav- 
ing a fine resounding chorus, goes near to lift the roof 
off. Liz does the sentimental, and warbles “Thou 
hast learned to love another, thou hast broken every 
vow.” Frank Livingston trolls forth, in a v&ry nice 


88 THE MISSES SLEAFOED AT HOME. 

tenor, “ Sarah’s Young Man,” and the Messieurs Sletfk 
ford uplift their voices in a nautical duet. The re* 
mains of the plum cake, and some cool lemonade are 
passed around among the fair sex. The gentlemen 
adjourn at intervals to the kitchen cupboard for a 
“ modest quencher,” a quiet cigar, and Geoffrey Lamar, 
growing rather bored, keeps his seat on the window* 
sill, and wishes it were time to get out of all this noise 
and heat, and go. 

His interest in Joanna does not flag. She is a 
curious study, and he watches her. After supper she 
clears off the things, washes the dishes, puts them 
away, sweeps up the floor, all in profound silence, and 
with deft, swift hands. Then, instead of going to bed, 
although it is past midnight, she produces a tattered 
book, and resumes her corner to read. With hands 
over her ears, eyes riveted to the page, she is seeming- 
ly lost to all the tumult around her. He watches her 
in silence for awhile, then he speaks. 

‘‘ What are you reading ?” 

He has to touch her to make her hear — then she 
looks up. How changed her look ! the sullen moodi- 
ness has passed away, her eyes are eager, her face 
bright with the interest of her book. But in that in- 
stant the old look of dark, frowning distrust returns. 
She points to the page without a word. 

“ ‘ Monte Cristo,’ ” he reads. “ Do you like it? ” 

She nods. 

‘‘ But the flrst and last seems to be torn out — that 
must spoil the interest, I should think. Do you read 
much ?” 

She purses up her mouth and shakes her head* 

“ Why ?” 


THE MISSES SLEAFORD AT HOME. 


89 


“ No books — no time.” 

“ You are fond of stories ?” 

“ Oh ! ain’t 1 1 — just !” 

“ Would you like me to bring you a book the next 
time I come ?” 

She looks at him, wondering, distrustful. He is a 
young gentleman, and he is taking notice of her — he 
is speaking to her kindly. No one does that. He is 
offering her a book — no one ever gives her anything. 
Her sullen look comes back ; she does not know what 
to make of it. 

“ I will bring you some books,” he says, “ and I 
will ask your sisters to let you read them. Books that 
will suit you better than ‘Monte Cristo.’ ” 

“ Sisters !” she repeats. “ I ain’t got no sisters. 

But if you ain’t foolin’ ” distrustfully. “ You art 

foolin’, ain’t you, mister ?” 

He assures her of his sincerity. 

“ Well, then, don’t you go and bring no books 
here. ’Cause I wouldn’t be let to have ’em ; old Giles 
would burn ’em up. But I know what you covld 
do with a cunning look. 

“Well — what ?” 

“ Do you know Black’s Dam, and the old mill down 
there in the woods ?” 

“ Yes, I know them.” 

“ Then — if you ain’t foolin’ — fetch ’em there, and 
leave ’em in the mill. Pll find them ; no one else eve? 
goes there. But I know you won’t.” 

“ You will see. You will find one there to-morrow 
night. What’s your name ?” 

“ Sleaford’s Joanna,” she says, with a shrill laugh, 
“ or Wild Joanna — ’tain’t no odds which. I’m hot x.’* 


90 


GEOFFEEY LAMAE. 


What is your other name ?” 

“ Got no other name. Got no father, no mother 
no friends, no nothin’. I’m only Sleaford’s JoaniMi.” 

She goes back to her book, and when, hours after, 
the Boir'ee breaks up, she is bending over Dumas’ ex^ 
travaganza still. Geoffrey bids her good-night — the 
only one of the party who has addressed her the whole 
evening. 

And that brief conversation is the mustard-seed, 
BO small as to be hardly visible, from which all the 
dark record of the future is to grow. There are 
many memorable nights in Geoffrey Lamar’s life, 
but none that stands out more ominously vivid than 
this. 


CHAPTER X 


GEOFFEEY LAMAE. 



EOFFREY LAMAR goes to no more Slea 
ford soirees, he has no taste for that soit 
of revelry, but he does not forget the odd, 
elfish child who wastes midnight oil over 
the adventures of Dumas’ wonderful hero. 

He goes next day to Black’s Dam, with a volume 
under his arm, and places it on a rude seat he finds in 
the ruined mill. It is a dull, sunless day, and the evil 
look of the place depresses him. What a strange, 
hideous retreat this child chooses ; it is like herself, 
eery and frowning. The dark, stagnant pond lie? 
under the gray sky, green and poisonous, the dull 
oroak of a frog making itself heard now and then. 1; 


OEOFFREY LAMAE. 


91 


looks black and bad ; so, too, does the deserted mill, 
falling dry and tindery to decay. Heavy woods and 
rank undergrowth shut it in on every hand. There is 
no path, long ago it was overgrown and forsaken, only 
a slender line worn by the bare feet of the desolate 
child. A great pity for the forlorn, ill-treated littl«? 
creature fills him. 

“ Poor little wretch !” he thinks ; “ all work and no 
play, ignorance, brutality, starvation — it is hard lines 
for her.” 

He leaves the book and returns to the village. He 
and Leo are due at the villa to-day ; they are to dine 
with convalescent Olga. It is the first time she has 
left her chamber, and, robed in the daintiest of all her 
dainty white robes, she is carried down by papa to 
where the table is set under the trees, and where she 
is received with acclamations by Frank, and Geoffrey, 
and Leo. All the long ringlets are gone, she looks 
pallid and thin, but very, very pretty. She is the lit- 
tle queen of the feast, she is petted and spoiled to her 
heart’s content. And Olga likes to be petted, and 
ceases to regret the loss of her lovely long hair, and 
decides there are worse things in the world than brain 
fever, after all. 

Late that evening, after a hard day’s work — for it 
if wash-day at the farm-house, and she has had to 
car'*y water from early morning — Sleaford’s Joanna 
steals out by the back way, and darts off to her casile 
in the wood. 

Some faint hope that the young gentleman who 
spoke to her last night may keep his word stirs within 
her, but it is very faint. Joanna is not used to people 
who keep their word a-nd why should he ever tl ink of 


99 


GEOFFEEr LAMAR. 


her again ? It surprises her when she remembers he 
noticed her at all. 

Frank Livingston has been coming to the house 
for months, and has never spoken to her a single word. 
She has provided herself with a candie in a bottle, and 
some matches, in case the book should prove to be 
there. And if it does not rain, as it looks very much 
like doing, she will stay at the mill all night. 

The gray light of the overcast day is dying out 
when she reaches her gruesome retreat. But it is not 
ugly or forbidding to Joanna ; the quietest, the hap- 
piest, the most peaceful hours of her life are spent 
here. The frogs that croak in the green, slimy waters, 
croak at her with the voices of friends ; their ugly faces 
uplifted from the ooze are the friendliest faces she 
knows. She has read “ Robinson Crusoe ” of late, and 
wild visions of flying from Sleaford’s farmstead, and 
taking up her permanent abode here, rise before her 
ecstatically. To live here all by herself, never to work, 
never to be scolded or beaten, that would be bliss. But 
it is not practicable, the Sleafords would never let hei 
go like that — who would fetch water, and carry wood, 
and wash dishes, and scrub floors, and make beds, and 
see to the dinner, and run errands, if she left ? And 
grapes do not grow in Brightbrook woods, nor wild 
goats run about, waiting to be caught and eaten, as in 
Crusoe’s lovely isle. 

Still, she has done the best she can ; she has brought 
an armful of clean straw, a pillow and a quilt or two, 
a supply of candles and matches, and spends many a 
^anquil summer night here, watching the stars shining 
iowB on her, through the broken roof. These nights 


GEOFFREY LAMAR. 


93 


we the nearest approach to happiness Sleaford’s Joanna 
knows. 

She reaches the miL, enters, and finds a book in red 
and gilt binding lying on the bench. Her heart gives 
a bound — she has a passion for reading ; such a volume 
as this she has never before beheld. She wipes her 
grimy fingers on her frock, and takes it gingerly up. 
There is still light enough to read the title, the “ Old 
Curiosity Shop.” It is full of pictures, she gloats over 
them, the sentences look short, the print is large and 
clear. 

There seems to be plenty of conversation ; as Joanna 
expresses it, “it looks open-worky.” She hug^ the 
book to her breast, her eyes shine with delight. Oh, 
how good of him — that nice, pleasant-spoken young 
gentleman, to remember her — her I whom nobody ever 
remembers ; to come all this way and leave this beauti- 
ful book. 

A great throb of gratitude fills her, all good is not 
crushed out of the child ; then a pang swift and sharp 
follows. If he knew how bad she is, how she has 
nearly killed poor little Miss Vcntnor, would he have 
been so kind ? No, she feels sure not ; he would 
shrink from her as from a toad. She is a toad, a 
venomous toad, Liz says so — an imp, Jud calls her — a 
little devil is Dan’s pet name for her — lazy little hussy, 
Lora says, and Old Giles’ names mostly are too bad to 
repeat. No, if he knew what she was like, he never 
would fetch her any books. 

It IS dark now ; she lights her candle and begins 
to read. She is not afraid of being interrupted, no 
one ever comes to Black’s Dam. More than one 
wretched suicide has sought its yillainous watern. and 


94 


GEOFFEET LAMAE. 


it is of evil savor in the nostrils of Brightbrook. It ii 
a weird picture, the dark, stagnant pond, the dark 
woods, the dark night sky, the deep and mysterious 
stillness, that glimmering light among the ruined tim- 
bers of the old mill, and the strange little creature 
crouched in a heap, devouring, with greedy eyes, the 
story of Little Nell. 

Presently the sighing wind rises, falls, stirs the 
trees, wails lugubriously through the pines, and then 
great drops begin to fall and plash heavily on the 
roof. She neither hears nor heeds ; she is far away 
amid the Kentish meadows with Little Nell, held 
breathless and enchained by the pathos of the tale. 

She has never read anything like this ; she laughs 
with Dick Swiveller, she identifies herself with the 
marchioness, she is lost in wonder at the goodness and 
wisdom of Nelly. It is very late, and she has read 
quite half the book, when a large drop falls directly 
on the glittering candle, and it splutters an^l goes out. 
It is burned nearly to the end anyhow, it is useless 
relighting the fragment. She closes her book with a 
profound sigh, and for the first time becomes conscious 
that it is raining hard and that a gale is surging 
through the woods. 

Well, it does not matter ; her truss of straw, and 
quilts, are in a dry corner, but she would as soon go 
home in the rain as not. But before going anywhere, 
ihe sits for nearly half an hour, her knees clasped in 
her arms, her black melancholy eyes staring out at the 
wet wildness of the lonesome night. 

That story of Little Nell troubles and disturbs her. 
How different from Nell is she — how wicked, how 
miserable ! But then no one has ever loved her, oi 


OEOFFRET LAMAR. 


dd 

dared for her, or taught her. No nice old grandfather 
has ever doted on her ; no funny Kit Nubbles has leen 
her friend ; no Mrs. Jarley has protected and been 
kind to her. 

She wonders what it is like to be happy, to b ave 
father, mother, friends ; a home without cursing, or 
drinking, or whipping ; nice dresses, and plenty of 
books to read. It would be easy enough to be good 
then, but she — a strange, mournful wonder fills her 
as she looks back over the brief years she can remem- 
ber. 

She is bad, no doubt ; she is very bad — but what 
has she done to have such a hard, hard life? She is 
only a poor little thing, after all ; only twelve years 
old. Was she born wicked, she wonders, and different 
from other children? In a blind, pathetic sort of way 
she tries to solve the riddle, but it baffles her. She 
gropes in utter darkness of heart and soul. It would 
be pleasant to be good, she thinks, but it cannot be ; 
no one could be good at Sleaford’s. And if she was 
born a little imp, as they tell her, it is of no use try- 
ing. She can no more be like Little Nell than she can 
be like Miss Olga Ventnor, or Miss Leo Abbott, with 
their floating, perfumed hair and silk dresses, and fair 
faces, and pretty, glittering trinkets. No, and she 
will not try ; and so, with another great hopeless sigh, 
Sleaford’s Joanna gives up the puzzle and goes to 
bed. 

Three days after this it occurs to Geoffrey Lamar 
to take a second look at the odd child at Sle tford’s. 
So he mounts his horse, and rides slowly into the 
woodland path that leads to the Red Farm. It is a 
mystery to him, as it has been to others, why Mr. Ab- 


GEOFFEEY LAMAE. 


ootl lets this sViiftless lot run riot in the best farm he 
owns, but it is a mystery he cannot fathom, unless 
Frank Livingston’s unpleasant hints have some foun* 
datiom 

In his secret heart h 3 neither likes nor respects his 
step-father ; he distrusts him, he shares his mother’s 
unspoken shrinking and aversion. All the man’s tastes, 
and instincts, and ways are Ic w. Geoffrey is a gentle- 
man, lad as he is, and the son of a gentleman ; his 
feelings are by nature refined ; he hates coarseness, 
vulgarity, pride of wealth ; his intellect is beyond his 
years, and his reason tells him Frank’s hints are more 
than likely to be true. Mr. Abbott is good to him, is 
proud of him, is fond of him, is lavishly generous to 
him, and the boy fights with his feelings and keeps 
them down. He ought to be grateful, and he is, but 
despite all that Mr. Abbott can come not one whit 
nearer to the son than to the mother. 

As he rides along, a sudden joyous caroling over- 
head makes him pause and look up. Twit, twit, twit — 
twee-e-e-e ! A whole shower of silvery notes, but the 
bird is nowhere to be seen. Then the warble changes ; 
a blackbird whistles, a bobolink calls, it is the chat- 
ter of a squirrel, the to-whit-to-whoo of an owl, the 
harsh croak of a frog, the shrill chirp of a cricket, 
then rapidly the clear, shrill song of a lark. 

Geoffrey sits dumbfounded. Has a mocking-bird 
been let loose in Brightbrook woods ? Suddenly a wild 
peal of laughter greets him, there is a rustle of boughs, 
and from a tree under which he stands, a thin, elfish 
face looks down. 

“ It’s only me, mister, mocking the birds. I often 
4o it. I can whistle, too. Listen !” The sweetest, 


GEOFFBET L4MAB. 


97 


ihrillest whistle he has ever heard takes np the air 
‘‘ Sweet Home,” and performs it as he could not do to 
•ave his life. “ There !” says the voice. “ I’ll sing for 
you now, if you like. Didn’t know I could sing, did 
you ? All the Sleafords sing, law bless you ! but I 
only do when I feel like it. Did you ever hear ‘ Lani* 
gan’s Ball ?’ ” 

A sweet, strong voice begins that classical ditty, 
and the woods give back the melodious echo. Geof- 
frey Lamar listens in silent amaze. Why, the elf is a 
prodigy ! — a musical prodigy ! Where, in that small, 
starved body has she room for a voice like that ? 

She finishes at last, and whistles a bar or two of 
the air by way of closing symphony. 

“ That was an awful nice book you lent me,” she 
goes on. “ I’ve read it through twice. I haven’t 
soiled it a mite, and it’s down at the mill. I — I’m 
lots obliged to you, you know. Didn’t think you’d 
ever fetch it.” > 

She descends a branch or two from her lofty roost, 
end brings herself to a level with the rider. 

‘‘ It Sleaford’s Joanna !” says Geoffrey, his breath 
nearly taken away. “ Why, you must be a witch. Who 
taught you to sing and whistle, and twitter like a bird, 
in this fashion ?” 

‘‘Nobody taught me — taught myself. It’s jest as 
easy as nothin’ at all.” 

“ C'j:q you sing anything but ‘ Lanigan’s Ball ?’ ” 

Joanna nods. 

“ Know a hymn. Lora heard your mar sing it at 
her meetin’. Goes like this.” 

The silvery childish treble uplifts and peals out 
with a force that fairly amazes him. The hymn, from 

5 


96 


tiEOFFKEY LAMAB. 


those lips, amazes him still more. It is “Rock of 
Ages.” 

“ Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee !” 

How strangely from those impish lips sound th« 
grand, strong words ! 

“ Nothing in my hand I bring, 

Simply to Thy cross I cling; 

Naked, come to Thee for dress, 

Helpless, look to Thee for grace ; 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 

Let me hide myself in Thee I” 

“ Upon mj?^ word, you are a marvel !” Geoffrey says, 
catching his bated breath. “ And so you like the 
book ? Would you like another ?” 

“ Oh !” ejaculated Joanna, rapturously ; “ wouldn’t 
I just !” 

“Well, you shall. I will leave it this evening at 
the mill. Who taught you to read ? Have you ever 
been at school ?” 

“ School !” Joanna echoes, scornfully ; “ I guess 
not. Catch Old Giles sending me to school. Not bui 
that Pd like to go, mind you. No, Jud teaches me. 
He ain’t so bad, Jud ain’t — don’t curse nor hit me 
like the rest. Teached me some waitin’, too, but not 
much.” 

“ And you would like to learn more ?” 

“ You bet ! But ’tain’t no use. Old Giles would 
beat me to death if I spoke of such a thing.” 

Do you mean to say he really beats and swears at 
you ?” 

J oanna laughs shrilly. 

“ Oh, no, not at all ! He wouldn’t hurt nobody I 
Look here, mister !” 


«J!OFFRET LAMAB. 


99 


Shd uncovers her shoulders by a dexterous hitch, 
itoiid shows him long black and blue welts pui*pling the 

flesh. 

“ Did -hat last night ; was drunk, you know. Beal 
me till I couldn’t stir.” 

“ What had you done ?” Geoffrey asks, sick at 
heart. 

“Nothin’ ’tall. Didn’t fetch the boot-jack quick 
enough. Got me into a corner where I couldn’t wrig- 
gle away, and lashed me till Jud took the whip out of 
his hand. Says he’ll beat my soul out next time. May 
if he likes. I don’t care.” 

She begins to whistle defiantly, but tears of pain 
and wrath well up in spite of her, and she winks them 
angrily aw^ay. 

“ Poor little soul !” the lad says, strongly touched. 
And at the pitying words all her bravado breaks 
down, and she suddenly covers her face, and sobs 
wildly : 

“ I wish I was dead — I do ! I wish I w^as dead and 
buried !” 

“Hush,” he says, distressed, “that is wicked. 
Don’t cry ; I am going to try and do something for 
you. I am going to help you if I can. I am sure 
you would be a good girl if you had a chance. It is 
a shame — a shame ! They use you worse than a dog !” 

“ Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! oh, dear !” the poor little 
wretch sobs. It is the first time in her life the flood- 
gates have thus been opened. She cries wildly now, 
as she does all things, as if her very heart were burst- 
ing. It is the first time any one Las ever been sorry 
for her, and the sympathy goes near to broak her 
heart. 


100 IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT A.SSERT8 HIM8KLF. 


not cry,” he says. “Look here, Joanna, 1 
will leave the book for you to-night, and I will come 
to see you again in — let me see — two days. Now, 
good by, and do not get whipped, if you can, till I 
Dome back.” 

With which the youthful knight-errant of tattered 
damsels in distress turns his horse’s head, and rides 
slowly and thoughtfully homeward, reAolving in his 
mind a decidedly bold project, which, if carried into 
effect, bids fairs to alter the whole future life of Slea 
ford’s Joanna. 


CHAPTER XL 

IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT SSERTS HIMSELF. 

HE light of the August sunset lies low ovei 
Abbott Wood, as young Geoffrey Lamai 
rides slowly up the shaded avenue, stil 
lost in thought. And yet not so deepl} 
absorbed but that the glowing beauty of green glade^ 
and sunny slope, scented rose-thicket, waving depths ol 
fern and bracken, ruby lines of light slanting througl: 
brown boles of trees, strike him with a keen sense ot 
delight. It is his, all this fair domain, this noble in 
heritance ; no birthright, but the generous gift prom 
ised him often by the master of Abbott Wood. Am 
that sense of proprietorship accents vividly his pleas 
ure in its green lo J^elinesSj '\3 he rides up under thost 
tall, arching elms. He is not an embryo artist, as it 
Frank Livingston. He does not rant of light an<j 
fihadt, of breadth and perspective, of tone and color^ 



I jr WHICH MB. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 101 


and backgrounds and chien-oscuro, or the rest of the 
art-jargon in which his flighty friend excels, but he 
loves every tree, and stone, and coppice, and flower, 
and bird about the place, and means, please He.iven, 
it shall be his home, wander whither he may, through 
life. 

Mr. Abbott is in the stables, smoking and lecturing 
the grooms, when Geoffrey resigns his horse to the 
boy who caters to him. He nods affectionately to his 
step-son. It has been said he is fond and proud of 
him — proud, after an absurd fashion, that the lad is a 
gentleman by birth and breeding, while resenting at 
the same time the grave reserve the youth maintains 
between them. But Geoffrey is in a grateful and gen- 
tle mood at this moment ; moreover, he is in the char- 
acter of a suppliant, and returns his step-father’s 
greeting with cordiality. 

“ I’ve been deucedly put out just now, Geoff, my 
boy,” Mr. Abbott says, quitting the stables with him ; 
“ not so much with these fellows, though they are a 
set of lazy dogs, who shirk work whenever they can. 
But I was down at Cooper’s this afternoon, and the 
way that place is going to wreck and ruin under that 
shif’less lot is enough to turn a man’s hair gray. I 
gave old Job a bit of my mind, let me tell you, and 
out they go next quarter-day, by the Lord Harry ! 
Mind you, Geoff, when you’re master here, keep no 
tenants on your land like the Coopers. Out with ’em 
neck and crop !” 

‘‘Cooper is not a model farmer,” says Geoffrey, 
coolly, “ but in comparison with another of your ten- 
ants, his place is a paradise. I mean Sleaford’sr - the 
Bed Farm.” 


102 IN WHICH MR ABBOTT A?lftERT8 HIMSMiF. 


A dark frown bends Mr. Abbott’s brows. He takes 
ont his cigar and looks at the boy. 

‘‘ Sleaford’s !” he growls. “ What do you know of 
Sleaford's ? What takes you there ?” 

“ Frank Livingston took me the other evening. 
They had a dance of some sort. But I have passed 
the place often, and can see. Besides, every one is 
talking of it, and wondering you do not send them 
idrift.” 

“ Every one be — every one had better mind his own 
business ! You too,” Mr. Abbott would like to add, 
but he knows the state of haughty surprise Geoiffrey’s 
face can assume when it likes, and does not care to 
provoke it. ‘‘I don’t explain to all Brightbrook — hang 
’em — my reasons, but I don’t mind to you. Black 
Giles Sleaford was a — well, acquaintance of mine out 
in San Francisco, some fourteen years ago, and he did 
me — well, a sort of service, in those days. He’s a 
worthless devil, I allow, but what’s a man to do? 
Turn his back on an old fri — acquaintance ; and leave 
him to starve, when he’s rolling in riches himself ? It’s 
the way of the world, I know ; but, by Jupiter, it ain’t 
John Abbott’s way. So he’s at the Red Farm, and 
there I mean to let him stay. It ain’t the same case 
as the Coopers, at all. But look here, Geoffrey, boy 
don’t you go there. I don’t like it. I don’t ask many 
favors ; just grant me this one. They’re low, dear 
boy, and it ain’t no place for a young gentleman born 
and bred, like you. Livingston may go if he likes ; 
he’s a good-for-nothing rattle-pate at best, but you’re 
not of that sort. Don’t you go to Sleaford’s, Geoff, 
any more — to please the cld man !” 

He lays his hand, in his earnestness, on the Ud'i 


m WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIM gELF. lOf 

ihonlder, and looks with troubled eyes d >wti into hi? 
face. Geoffrey shrugs his shoulders — th 3 old, instinct 
ive feeling of shrinking ^rom his ste p-father ne\ u 
more strongly upon him. 

“ I am not likely to go there as Frank does,” Be 
answers, carelessly ; “ he likes that sort of thing — I do 
not. But once or twice more I believe I must. I have 
a little project on hand connected with one of that 
family which will take me there again — at least as 
often as that.” 

Mr. Abbott’s gaze grows more and more perturbed. 

“ One of that family !” he repeats. “ You don’t 
mind my asking which one, do you, Geoff ? It ain’t 

” he hesitates ; bully, braggart, bold man that he 

is, he has a strong respect for this boy. “ It ain’t — 
excuse me — one of the girls ?” 

He fears to meet that icy stare he knows so well 
from both mother and son, and resents so bitterly. 
But to his surprise Geoffrey only laughs. 

“ Exactly, sir, one of the girls — the youngest. I 
will not tell you what it is just now. You will think 
it absurd, I dare say. I will speak to my mother first, 
and she will inform you. There ! I see her on the ter- 
race. Excuse me, sir, she is beckoning.” 

He darts away, his face lighting. As a sculptor 
may regard some peerless marble goddess, almost as a 
good Catholic may reverence some fair, sweet saint, so 
Geoffrey Lamar looks upon his mother. To him she j% 
liege lady ; to him she stands alone among w'omen for 
beauty, culture, grace, goodness. Her very pride 
makes a halo around her in his love-blind eyes. 

John Abbott does not attempt to go after him. 
mother nor bob need him or desire him 5 


104 IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ISSEETS HIMSELF 


would be but a barrier to their confidence, a blot on 
the landscape He feels it now, as he has felt it a 
thousand times, with silent, impotent wrath, but Lis 
anger is mingled just at present with another feeling 
-—fear. 

“ His mother !” he says, vacantly ; “ he is going tc 
tell his mother ! One of the Sleaford girls — the young- 
est. I — I don’t like the look of this.” 

Mrs. Abbott stands on the terrace, the crimson 
western light falling full upon her, and smiles as her 
son draws near. She is a beautiful woman, tall, slen- 
der, olive-skinned, with dark, solemn. Southern eyes, 
and languid, high-bred grace in every slow movement. 
She is like a picture as she stands here — like a Titian 
or a Murillo stepped out of its frame — in her trailing 
dress of violet silk, the delicate laces, the cluster dia- 
mond at her throat, the guelder-rose in her hair. She 
looks as a queen might — as a queen should — regal, 
royal, superb. 

“ I hope you are in very good humor, mother,” is 
Geoffrey’s greeting, plunging into business at once ; 
“because I have come to ask a favor — a very great 
favor, you may think.” 

Mrs. Abbott’s smile, faint but very sweet, answers. 
Her eyes rest on her boy lovingly, lingeringly — he is 
very, very dear to her. She loves her little Leo, too , 
but there is this difference — she loves Geoffrey for his 
father’s sake as well as his own. 

“Do I ever refuse you anything, I wonder?” she 
says, slightly amused “ You are a tyrant, Geoff, and 
abuse your power. It is one of my failings, but I can- 
not say no.” 

“ But I am uncommonly afraid you will this time. 


IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 100 


It is no trifle. It will be a responsibility, and you may 
think it derogatory besides.” 

The smile fades from her face. 

“ You could never ask me to do anything yon 
thought that,” she quietly says. 

“ Nor do I — you may. It will be a bore, I am sure. 
The only thing to be said in its favor is, that you will 
be doing good.” 

‘‘Doing good can never be derogatory. Go on, 
Geoffrey, out with this wonderful request. What a 
philanthropist, by-the-bye, you are getting to be.” 

The proud, smiling look returns — she takes his arm, 
and they saunter slowly up and down the terrace. 

“ Don’t call names, madre mio,” laughs Geoffrey. 
“Well — here goes ! But thereby hangs a tale, to 
which you must listen by way of prologue or argu- 
ment. The favor come after. Lend me thine ears 
then — I will a tale unfold.” 

And then — not without dramatic power and pathos 
— he tells the story of Sleaford’s Joanna. 

“ She is treated as you would not see a dog in your 
house treated, mother ; she is in a very hot-bed of ig- 
norance, and vulgarity and vice. And I am sure she 
is not naturally bad. She has a love for reading which 
speaks well for her, and her voice — ah ! well, you will 
have to hear that before you can believe it. This is 
the story, mother — the favor is, will you stretch out 
your hand — this beautiful hand,” the young knight ex- 
claims, kissing it, “ and save that wretched child !” 

“ My Geoff !” the lady answers, a tremor in her 
voice, “ how ?” 

“Send for her here — make Miss Rice give her les- 
sons in English and singing, lift her out of the slough 
6 * 


106 nr wmem iiis.. abbott asserts BiHSBifF. ' 


of darkness in which she is lost now. Save her 
and soul ! You can, mother.” 

There is emotion in the lad’s voice, in his earnest 
face, in his deep, glowing gray eyes. His mother 
stops in her walk, tears on her dark lashes, both hands 
on his shoulders. 

My boy I my boy ! but it is like you. Oh I I 
thank the good God for giving me such a son. Yes, 
what I can do, I will. It is an awful responsibility, an 
awful thought, that the life, the soul of any human 
creature may be in our hands. If I can help her, save 
her, as you say, I am ready. I say nothing in your 
praise. Heaven has given you a great heart, my 
Geoffrey — your father’s noble soul. To lift the lost, 
to save the unfortunate, what can be nobler? Yes, I 
will do it. Send her here when you will.” 

The outburst is over — she pauses. She seldom 
gives way to her feelings like this. There is silence 
for a little ; both descend to the lower earth again. 

But she cannot associate with Leo,” Mrs. Abbott 
ways, in her usual manner, “ such a child as that !” 

“Certainly not. What I thought was, that after 
Miss Rice had finished Leo’s lessons for the day, she 
should dismiss her, and take in hand Joanna. Her 
name is Joanna. Leo always finishes by three — Joanna 
could come from three to six. Of course. Miss Rice 
will be willing, and glad of the extra salary.” 

“Of course. These people will make no objection 
to the little girl’s coming, will they ? They must bo 
very dreadful from what you say. I wonder that Mr. 
Abbott, particular as he is, allows them on his land.” 

“Others wonder too,” Geoffrey responds, iryly 
** fact remains— he does, I really dp not kBPf 


IK WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF 107 


whether they will object or not. I spoke to no one, 
of course, until I had spoken to you. If they refuse, 
why, we can do no more. I will ride over and see to 
morrow. Meantime, I suppose it will be necessary to 
mention it to Mr. Abbott.” 

I suppose so ” — the smooth brow of the lady con- 
tracts a little — she does not like mentioning things te 
Mr. Abbott — “ but it cannot matter to him.” 

“ No, but still he likes ” 

“ Yes, yes, it snail be done. I see him yonder, and 
will speak to him at once, if you like.” 

‘‘Thank you, mother.” 

She approaches her husband. She walks with the 
slow, swaying grace of a Southern woman, the lights 
tnd shadows from sunshine and trees flecking the vio- 
let sheen of her dress. Her son watches her, so does 
her husband, both with eyes that say, “ Is she not the 
fairest of all the fair women on earth ?” 

Mr. Abbott removes his cigar, and stands with a 
certain deference of manner, as his wife draws near. 
If her dark head is lifted a trifle higher than usual, it is 
mstinctive with her when about to ask what sounds to 
ier like a favor. If the voice in which she speaks has 
a prouder inflection than customary, it is unconsci- 
ously and for the same reason. In briefest words she 
tells the story. Geoffrey has taken a far.cy to help a 
poor little village child — may she come here and re- 
ceive lessons from Miss Rice, when Miss Rice has fin 
ished every day with Leonora ? 

It is not often Mrs. Abbott voluntarily seeks her 
husband, or asks him for favors. His coarse face 
^uite lights up into gladness now. 

“Certainly, certainly, certainly I” he says, “any 


108 IK WHlCfl AIK ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. 


tiling you and Geoff wish. HUf a dozen village girla 
If you like, my — my dear. The lad’s the best lad 
alive— sensible, steady, good-natured. I’m fond of 
him, that I am, Mrs. Abbott.” 

‘‘Thanks,” Mrs. Abbott says, bending her stateiy 
head. She turns to go, has gone half a dozen steps, 
when her husband’s voice reaches her. 

“ Nora.” 

She turns slowly. He seldom calls her by her 
name ; he stands, looking rather sheepishly now at his 
cigar. 

“ You’ve never been over to Laurel Hill — the new 
place I bought last week. It’s an uncommon pretty 
spot — eight miles t’other side of Brightbrook. Sup- 
pose you let me drive you there to-morrow ?” 

If he were a suppliant lover he could hardly look 
more humble, more anxious. The line between his 
wife’s straight, dark brows deepens. 

“ To-morrow I dine with Colonel and Mrs. Ventnor.” 

“Well, next day then.” 

“ Next day I am going up to New York to do some 
very necessary shopping.” 

“ Well, the day after. Oh ! hang it, Nora, say yes ! 
You never go anywhere with me now, and I don’t so 
often ask you, neither.” 

“ Certainly I will go,” she says, but she says it so 
coldly, so distantly, that the man sets his teeth. “ I 
did not know you thought it a matter of any moment. 
1 will go the day after to-morrow, or whenever you 
wish.” 

“ I don’t wish,” he returns, shortly. “ Don’t trouble 
yourself, Mrs. Abbott, I don’t wish for anything 
We’ll neve’* mind Laurel Hill t” 


IN WHICH MB. A.BBOIT ASSEETS HIMSELF, 109 


He resumes his cigar, turns his back upon her 
thrusts his hands in his pockets, and strides away. 
But half an hour after, as he still stalks sulkily up 
and down, a thought strikes him, a most unpleasant 
thought. It turns him hot all over. 

* By the Lord !” he cries, taking out his cigar, 
aghast, “ I shouldn’t wonder but what it is /” 

A great bell, up in one of the windy, make-believe 
Gothic turrets, clangs out ; it is the dinner-bell of 
Abbott Wood. The master is not dressed, a faint 
odor as of stables bangs about him, but he is in no 
mood to conciliate his stiff wife, and make a dinner 
toilet. He is chafed, rubbed over so much the wrong 
way, and it affords him a grim sort of pleasure to set 
her at defiance, and outrage her sense of sight and 
smell, by appearing just as he is. He marches into 
the dining-room, grisly, forbidding, ireful. It is a 
beautiful and spacious room — the dinner service is all 
in the way of plate, napery, crystal, china, that money 
can do to make that most ungraceful necessity — eating 
— graceful. Flowers are there in profusion, a golden 
after-glow fills the apartment, the viands are as nearly 
perfect as possible, the mistress of the mansion a fair 
and gracious lady, Geoffrey the most polished of 
youthful Paladins, little Leo like an opera fairy in 
pink silk, but the master, stern and unsmiling as the 
Death’s Head of the Egyptian banquets, takes his 
place, and begins his soup in unsocial silence and 
glumness. At last he looks up. 

“ I didn’t ask the name of the little beggar you 
propose to bring here,” he says to Geoffrey. “ Who 
is she 

The youth glances at him in surprise. These 


110 IN WHICH MR. ABBOIT ASaERTS HIMSELy* 


sudden changes of temperature are not uncommon in 
Mr. Abbott’s moral thermometer, but they are always 
disconcerting. 

“Her name is Sleaford’s Joanna — or more prop 
®rly, I suppose, Joanna Sleaford.” 

Mr. Abbott’s spoon drops with a clash in his plate. 
As a thunder-cloud blackens the face of the sky, so a 
swarthy frown darkens the face of the man. 

“ I thought so,” he says. “ It’s well I made sure 
m time. I withdraw my consent, madam. No brat 
of Sleaford’s ever sets foot in this house 

“ Sir !” Geoffrey cries, hotly. 

It is the tone, the look, insolent beyond measure, 
addressed to his mother, that stings him. For Mrs. 
.Abbott, she does not say a word. She looks once at 
the man before her, then back at her plate. 

“ Ah ! sit down, my lad — there is nothing for you 
.0 get your mettle up about. Only Sleaford’s Joanna 
^on’t come here. Leo is my daughter — I’ll know who 
jhe associates with. And, by heavens ! it sha’n’t be 
with a cub out of Giles Sleaford’s den !” 

The veins in his forehead stand out purple — he 
brings his clenched fist down on the table until the 
glass rings. 

Geoffrey’s face flushes crimson, he looks at his 
mother, prepared to resent this violence. She is a 
shade paler than usual, a little curl of scorn and dis- 
gust dilates the delicate nostrils — otherwise she is per- 
fectly calm. 

“ Do not excite yourself, Mr. Abbott,” she says, in 
slow, iced tones, “ there is really no need. Resume 
your dinner, Geoffrey. Of coarse it shall be |ulte w 
Mr. Abbott wishes ” 


m WHIOfl MK. ABBOTT ASSERT? HIMSKLF. 11 1 


And then silence falls — such silence ! Mrs. Abbott 
ieems slowly to petrify as she sits. Geoffrey’s face is 
rigid with wrath. Mr. Abbott makes short work of 
kis dinner, and departs without a word. Only little 
Leo, of the quartet, dines at all. 

But one sentence, at rising, passes between the 
mother and son. 

“ You will tell this poor child she cannot come,” 
Mrs. Abbott says, and Geoffrey nods. 

But an obstinate look comes about his mouth ; he 
is not easily baffled ; those resolute lips, that curved 
chin, were not given him for nothing. Joanna may 
not come here, but he will go instead to Miss Rice, 
and arrange with her to give the girl lessons at her 
own rooms. His pocket-money is abundant ; he will 
pay for her himself. She shall be taught, that is as 
fixed as fate, if he has to buy Sleaford’s consent with 
his last penny. Contradiction has the effect on young 
I:amar it has on all determined people — it only re- 
doubles his determination. 

It rains the next day, a steady, drizzling, persist- 
ent rain. But he cares very little for a wet jacket ; 
sleeping on his resolution only makes him more 
resolute. He mounts bis “ dapple gray ” and rides 
through the dripping woods to Sleaford’s. No mock 
ing-bird is perched among the branches to-day, to 
waylay him with its delusive melody. He reaches the 
house, puts his horse under cover, and enters. Only 
two of the family are to be seen — ^Joanna, scrubbing 
a floor that very much needs scrubbing, and Giles 
himself, smoking, in the corner, a meditative pipe. He 
greets his visitor with a surprised nod, and watches 
him curiously. For Joanna— -it is evidently one ol 


112 IK WHICH 'SlTl, ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF 


her dark days ; her small face looks cross and cantan 
kerous, she curtly returns his salutation, she scrubs the 
boards with ill-tempered vehemence. The rain beats 
against the panes, the house and everything about it 
looks dismal and forlorn. 

“ Well, Joanna,” Geoffrey says, in an undertone, “ I 
promised to come, and I am here. But my project 
has failed for the present. I intended you to come to 
Abbott Wood every day for lessons, but it seems it 
cannot be. We must hit on some other plan. You 
would not mind going up the village every afternoon, 
would you ?” 

Before Joanna can reply, Sleaford takes his pipe 
from his mouth, and breaks in. He has caught the 
words, low as they are spoken. 

“What’s that?” he demands, gruffly. 

“I meant to tell you,” Geoffrey courteously re 
turns, “ and ask your consent. Of course, all this is 
subject to your control. Your little girl is clever, 1 
think, and has a fine voice. I intended to have hei 
taught, and that voice cultivated — always with your 
permission. I thought at first of getting her to come 
every day to our house, but ” 

“ Well, but what ?” 

“ It cannot be, it seems. Still, I can manage it. 
She can go to Brightbrook and take her lessons there 
instead.” 

“Stop a bit,” says Giles Sleaford, resuming his 
pipe ; “ why can’t she go to Abbott Wood ?” 

“ Well,” Geoffrey replies, with that frank regard 
for simple truth that is characteristic of him, the 
fact by Mr. Abbott objects. Not that it matters at 
all — the other way will do just as well ” 


IN WHICH MR. ABBOTT ASSERTS HIMSELF. Hi 


“ Stop a bit !” repeats Mr. Sleaford ; “ did you put 
it to your guv’ner, ‘ I want to learn a little girl,’ says 
you, ‘ that don’t know nothin’ but cussin’ and lowness, 
and make a lady out o’ her !’ Did you put it like 
that?” 

“ Something like that — yes.” 

“ Namin’ no names at fust ?” 

“ Exactly.” 

“And what did he say thenf'*'* 

“Well, he said yes,” answers Geoffrey, a little em- 
barrassed, but still adhering to truth. 

“And when he found who it was he wouldn’t, ^ 
^Givehera name,’ ses he. ‘Sleaford’s Joanna,’ ses 
you. ‘ I’m d — d if you do !’ ses he, ‘ none o’ that lot 
comes here !’ That was it, wasn’t it ?” 

“Well, more or less,” Geoffrey returns, laughing 
in spite of himself. “You must be a wizard, I think, 
Mr. Sleaford. But it really does not matter, you 
know ; the other way ” 

“Stop a bit !” reiterates Giles Sleaford. “ Was it 
your intentions as how your mar should look arter 
Joanner when she went up to the big house, and kind 
o’ help to eddicate her and that ?” 

“ It was, but as I say ” 

“ Stop a bit ! hold on — it ain’t the same no way, 
tendin’ her to the village to a teacher woman. The 
gal shall go to your guv’ner’s house or she shan’t go 
at all. Now you stop a bit, don’t do nothin’ afore to- 
morrow, and maybe — I name no names, mind you ! — 
and maybe she can be let to go to your mar.” 

With which Mr. Sleaford relapses into ruminative 
silence and slowly refills his pipe, which has gone out. 
There is a grim sort of grin on his forbidding face as 


114 


‘‘ nobody’s child.” 


fee does so, and he swallows a chuckle or :;wo 3A h$ 
watches the heir of Abbott Wood rise and go away. 

“So Red Jack won’t, won’t he?” he says, half 
aloud, with one of these suppressed chuckles; “ becausa 

she’s a Sleaford I Ah ! welL we will see*” 

% 


CHAPTER XIL 

“nobody’s child.” 

R. ABBOTT is sitting alone in the library 
at Abbott Wood. For the very great per- 
sonage he is in some respects, his position 
is an undignified one. He has tilted back 
the carved and cushioned chair in which his bulky 
body reposes, elevated his boots on the low black mar- 
ble mantel, and is rapidly filling the room with tobacco 
smoke. A frown still rests on his brow ; he has not 
forgiven his wife — he is not disposed to forgive her ; 
it is only one more added to the lengthy list of affr 
she has put upon him* 

“And if ever I get a chance,” he mutters, as he 
smokes, “I’ll pay you back with interest, my high and 
mighty lady !” 

Little Leo has just left im. jS/ie is his at any rate; 
he will have her wit him when he cho" ses, in the very 
ccth of her scornful mother. The child is sufl5.ciently 
fond him; he is foolishly indulgent to her. after the 
manner of his kind; but now she, too, has quitted 
him. Nine has struck, and nurse has come and borne 
her off. At present he is solacing himself with a pipe. 



“ koboby’s child.” 


113 


the evening paper, and some cruscy port, untLl shall 
be time to go to bed. 

“ A wet night, by jingo !” he says, as in the pauses 
of rattling the paper he hears the dash of the rain 
against the glass, and the sough of the wind in the 
trees. 

The room in which he sits is a grand one — a hun 
dred years old to look at, at least : everything in it, 
about it, is richly hued, deeply tinted, warmly toned. 
There is an oriel window, where sunset lights fall 
through on a dark, polished oaken floor in orange, and 
ruby, and amethyst dyes. A soft, rose-red carpet cov- 
ers the center of the floor ; a tiger-skin rug is stretched 
in front of the shining grate. Mellow-brown panels 
are everywhere where books are not. Books are 
many ; hundreds of volumes in costly bindings — pur- 
ple, crimson, white and gold — not a ‘‘ dummy ” among 
them all. There are bronzes, and a few dark paintings 
of the literary lights of the world, quaint old furni- 
ture, all carved with arabesques and griffin’s-heads, 
and upholstered in bright crimson cloth. Here, too, 
as in nearly every room of the house, is burned in the 
panes the escutcheon of his Southern wife. It looks a 
very temple of culture and learning, and, with the usual 
fine irony of fate, John Abbott is its high priest. 
Not one, of all these hundreds of costly volumes, does 
his stumpy brown fingers ever open ; his literature is 
confined t€ the New York and Brightbrook daily 
papers, and all the sporting journals he can buy. 

As he sits and puffs his clouds of smoke, and 
swallows his wine, there is a tap at the door, and • 
man-servant enters. 

“ Well,” inquires Mr. Abbott, “ what now?” 


116 


“ nobody’s child.” 


“ There is a man in the hall, sir, to see you partio* 
ular. He says his name is Sleaford.” 

The servant looks at him with covert cunning tts 
he makes the announcement. In a place like Bright* 
brook there can be no such thing as a secret. The 
servants of Abbott Wood have heard of the Sleafords, 
but this is the first time one of that celebrated family 
has presented himself at the manor. Mr. Abbott 
drops his paper, and slowly rises from his chair, a gray 
pallor overspreading the peony hue of his face. 

Sleaford!” he repeats, blankly; “did you say 
Sleaford ?” 

“ Sleated, sir — Giles Sleaford. He is waiting in 
the vestibule, dripping wet. Told him I didn’t know 
you were at home, sir, but would see. Are you at 
home, sir ?” 

“ Show him in, you fool, and be quick !” 

The man retreats. Mr. Abbott resumes his chair, 
breathing quickly, that grayish shade still on his face, 
and tries to resume his usual bluff, blustering manner 
as well, but in vain. He is frightened — braggart, 
boaster that he is ; his hand shakes — he is forced to 
fling aside his paper with an oath. 

“ Sleaford !” he thinks ; “ this time of night — and 
such a night ! Good G ! what is he after now ?” 

The door reopens, and, dripping like a huge water- 
dog, his hat on his head, his hands in his pockets, 
Giles Sleaford stalks into the room. “ Oh, you are to 
home !” he says, with a sneer ; “the flunkey said as 
how he didn’t know. It ain’t the kind o’ night heavy 
swells like John Abbott, Esquire, of Abbott Wood, 
would be like to go out promenadin’. It’s as black as 
» wolfs mouth, and cornin’ down like blazes.” 


NOBOPY’S CHILD. ’ 


117 


“ Sit down, Sleaford,” says Mr. Abbott, in a tone 
of marked civility. He sends one of the carved and 
cushioned chairs whirling on its castors toward him, 
but Mr. Sleaford only glances at it with profound 
contempt. “ It is, as you say, the deuce and all of a 
night to be out in. But now that you are here, if 
there is anything I can do for you ” 

“ Ah ! if there is !” returns Mr. Sleaford, still sar- 
donic ; ^‘as if there was anything a rich gent like 
Mr. Abbott couldnH do for a poor bloke like me. As 
if I would tramp it through mud and water a good 
three mile for the pleasure of lookin’ at your jim* 
cracks, and axin’ arter your ’elth. Yes, there is some- 
thin’ you can do for me, and what’s more, you’ve got 
to do it, or I’ll know the reason why.” 

The sneer changes to a menace. Mr. Abbott rises 
with precipitation, opens the door quickly, and looks 
down the long, lighted passage. There are no eaves- 
droppers. He closes the door, locks it, and faces his 
man. The danger is here, and he does not lack pluck 
to meet it. 

“ What do you want ?” he demands ; “ it was part 
of our bargain that you were never to come here. 
Why are you here ? I’m not a man to be trifled with 
— you ought to know that before to-night.” 

“ There ain’t much about you. Jack Abbott, that I 
don’t know,” Sleaford retorts, coolly. “ Don’t take on 
none o’ your rich-man airs with me. This is a snug 
crib — -all this here pooty furniture and books cost a 
few dollars, I reckon. You wouldn’t like to swop ’em 
for a cell in Sing Sing, and a guv’ment striped suit? 
What am I here for ? I’m here to find out why cue o* 


IIS 


nobody’s child.” 


my kida ain’t to come to your wife to get a eddicatioa^ 
if that there young sport, your step-son, says so ?” 

The two men look each other straight in the eyei 
— fierce, dogged determination in Sleaford’s, malig 
nant, baffled furj^ in Abbott’s. 

“So I this is what you want, Black Giles?” 

“ This is what I want, Jack Abbott. And what I’li 
have, by the Eternal ! Mind you, I don’t care a cuss 
about eddication, nor whether the gal ever knows B 
from a cow’s horn, but the young gent wants it, and 
you were willin’ till you found out who she was, and 
then you wouldn’t. Now, I’ll stand none o’ that. My 
gal’s cornin’ up here to be eddicated by your wife,” 
says Mr. Sleaford, beating out his proposition with the 
finger of one hand on the palm of the other, “which is 
a lady born and bred, and by your step-son, which he’s 
what all the gold that ever panned out in the diggins 
can’t make you — a gentleman. You forbid it yes’day 
— you’ll take that back to-morrow, and whenever the 
young swell says the word, Joanner’s cornin’ up here 
for that there eddication !” 

All this Mr. Sleaford says, slowly and impressively 
— by no means in a passion. Ilis hat is still on his 
head — politeness with Black Giles is not a matter of 
hat. And he fixes Mr. Abbott with his “glittering 
eye,” while he thus dogmatically lays down the law. 
Mr. Abbott, too, has cooled. Indeed, for two ex- 
tremely choleric gentlemen, their manner has quite 
the repose that marks the caste of Vere de Vere. The 
master of the mansion takes a turn or two up and 
down the slippery floor before he replies. The tenant 
of the Red Farm eyes him with stolid malignity. 

“I wish you wouldn’t insist on this, Giles,” hi 


*^kob©by’s child.” 


m 


Bays, in a troubled tone, at last. ‘‘ I have a reason for 
it. Come ! I’ll buy you off. I’ll give you ” 

“ No, you won’t. I ain’t to be bought off. She’s 
got to come. But I’m out o’ cash. I want three hun- 
dred dollars.” 

J ohn Abbott’s eyes flash, but still he holds himself 
in hand. 

You are joking ! Only last week I gave you ” 

“Never mind last week, that’s gone with last 
year’s snow. It’s no good palaverin’ — you know what 
I want. All your money wouldn’t buy me off. She’s 
got to come.” 

Again silence — again broken by Mr. Abbott. 

“ How old is this confounded girl ?” he demands, 
and mentally consigns her to perdition. “Your girls 
ought to be all grown up, Sleaford.” 

“ Ought they. Well, they ain’t. She’s twelve, 
just.” 

“ Twelve ! What nonsense ! Why, your wife’s 
been dead these sixteen years.” 

“ Ah !” says Giles Sleaford. 

It is a brief interjection, but the tone, tne glare 
that goes with it brings back the blood in a purple 
glow to the other man’s face. 

“We won’t talk about thaty^^ says Sleaford between 
his teeth, “ nor what followed. ’Cause why ? I might 
forget you was the richest, respectablest gent here- 
abouts, and fly at your throat, and choke the black 
heart out o’ you. Gimme that money and let me git ! 
The blackest night that ever blowed is better than a 
pallis with you in it.” 

With a cowed look, Mr. Abbott goes to a desk, 
ifftouats over a roll of bills, and hands it to his teiuu»t 


nobody’s child.” 


im 

“ Sleaford,” he says, almost in a supplicating tone, 
** I wish you would go away from here. People are 
talking. The Red Farm is going to the dogs. It’s 
not that I care for that. I don’t care for that, but 
— ^but I don’t want people to talk. I’ve been a good 
friend to you, Giles ” 

The wild-beast glare that looks at him out of Giles 
Sleaford’s eyes makes him pause. 

“About money, I mean,” he resumes hurriedly. 
“ I’m not stingy, no man ever called me that. Nam6 
your price and go. Back to San Francisco : you can 
have a good time there ; and let by-gones be by-gones. 
I’ll come down handsome, by Jove, I will.” 

Giles Sleaford pockets the money, and looks at 
him with wolfish eyes. 

“ I’m a poor devil,” he says, “ but if I was poorer, 
if I was a dog in a ditch, I wouldn’t take half youi 
millions and leave you. I had work enough to find 
you. Lord knows ! But I have found you, and while 
you and me’s above ground we’ll never part.” 

He turns with the words and leaves the library. 
No more is said, no good-night is exchanged. Mr. 
Abbott in person sees his visitor to the door, and lets 
him out. The darkness is profound, a great gust of 
wind and rain beats in their faces, but Giles Sleaford 
plunges into the black gulf and tramps doggedly out 
of sight. 

« « * * 4c 

Next day, as Geoffrey Lamar is leaving the house 
After breakfast, on purpose to ride to the village and 
see Miss Rice, the teacher, his step-father approaches, 
in a shuffling way, and lays his hand on his shoulder. 

‘'If I said anything t’other day at dinner,” b* 


‘‘ NOBODY’S CHILD.” 


121 


says, gruffly, but apologetically, ‘‘ I want you to over 
look it, dear boy. I was put out, and I sbowei it 
Let that little girl come whenever you like.” 

Geoffrey glances at him, rather haughtily. It is one 
of his failings that he is slow to forgive. 

“ It is a matter of no consequence whether she ever 
comes here or not. I am perfectly satisfied to let it 
drop.” 

“ No, you ain’t, dear boy — you know you ain’t. You 
want her to come, and so does your mother. I’m sorry 
— I can’t say no more. Fetch her here and forget 
my words.” 

“Very well, sir,” Geoffrey returns in his grand 
manner — his head thrown back, his mouth somewhat 
stern. It is a very natural manner with the lad, and 
is exceedingly effective with most people. So it is to 
Sleaford’s he rides, instead of to the village, and the 
result is, that, dressed in her holiday best, Sleaford’s 
•Ioanna presents herself on Monday afternoon at 
Abbott Wood to begin her education. 

Mrs. Abbott looks at the wild creature in wonder 
and pity. Out in the woods there is a certain free, 
lithe grace about the girl — in this grand room, before 
this grand lady, she stands shifting from one foot to 
the other, downcast of face, awkward of manner, shy, 
silent, uncouth. Even the attempts at civilization, the 
«hoe» and stockings, the smoothed hair, the washed 
and shining face, embarrass her by their painful nov* 
elty. Miss Rice is there, a little, brisk, old body, with 
round, bird -like eyes, and the general air of a lively 
robin, in her brown stuff dress. 

“ My son tells me you can sing,” Mrs. AbboU says 

e 


122 


“ nobody’s child.” 


in her slow, sweet way. “Will you sing something 
for us that we may judge ?” 

As well ask her to fly ! J oanna stands mute, a des- 
perate feeling creeping over her to make a dash for 
the door, and fly forever to Black’s Dam. 

“You cannot?” with a smile. “Ah! well, it is 
natural. Miss Rice will play something for you 
instead, and I will leave you to get acquainted.” 

So Mrs. Abbott, with fine tact, goes, and Joanna 
draws a free breath for the first time. So much 
beauty, and condescension, and silk dress, have over- 
whelmed her. Miss Rice is insignificant — she never 
overwhelmed any one in her life. She goes to the 
piano, and plays what she thinks J oanna will like, a 
sparkling waltz, and a gay polka. 

Joanna does like it, and listens with rapture. 

“ Now tell me some of your songs, and I will play 
the accompaniment,” says Miss Rice. 

Joanna goes over half a dozen. “ Old Dog Tray,” 
“Wait for the Wagon,” “Sally, Come Up.” Miss 
Rice knows none of them. 

“ Here is ‘ Nobody’s Child.’ Can you sing that ?” 
she asks. 

As it chances, Joanna can, and does. All her ena 
barrassment is gone with Mrs. Abbott. Her strong 
young voice takes up the air, as Miss Rice softly 
strikes the chords, and peals out full and clear. There 
is a mournful appropriateness in every word. 

“ Out in the dreary and pitiless street, 

With my torn old shoes, and my bare cold feet, 

All day I have wandered to and fro. 

Hungry and shivering, nowhere to go. 

The night's coming down in darkness and dread, 

And the cold sleet is beating upon my poor head. 


nobody’s child.” 


Ida 


Ah ! why does the wind rush about me so wild f 
Is it because I am Nobody’s Child ?” 

Miss Rice listens, surprised and delighted. And 
Mrs, Abbott, just outside the open window, listens too, 
and mentally decides that Geoffrey was right. This 
girl is worth saving, if only for sake of that charming 
voice. She sings with expression, the pathos of the 
words find an echo in her untaught heart. She, too, 
is Nobody’s Child. 

‘‘ Oh, you have a lovely voice, indeed I” cries little 
Miss Rice, enthusiastically, “ and after a few months 
training — ah, well, only wait ! That will do now ; we 
will see what else you know, and get out a few 
books.” 

The “ what else ” turns out to be nothing at alL 
She can read with tolerable correctness, and write a 
little. She cannot sew, knit, crochet — knows nothing, 
in fact. 

“ It is virgin soil,” says Miss Rice, briskly, to her 
patroness ; “ plenty of weeds, and no cultivation. 
Well, we must pluck up the weeds, and plant the seeds 
of knowledge. Good-day, my dear lady.” 

Miss Rice trips away, and Joanna more slowly fol* 
lows. She passes the Gothic lodge, and is well out of 
sight of that neat little structure, when the master of 
Abbott Wood comes suddenly upon her, and stretch- 
ing out his brawny right hand, catches her by the 
wrist. He has been lying in wait. 

“You are Joanna Sleaford ?” 

She jerks away her hand. Roughness is the atmo8> 
phere of her life, and impish Joanna is Joanna at on<y^ 
“ No, I ain’t.” 

“ Who are you, then ? Don’t tell me lies 1” 


184 


nobody's child. 


C( 




Don^t yoa tell them ! I ara Sleaford’s J Danna.** 

“ What d’ye mean ? It's the same thing.” 

“ Oh, no ’taint. My name ain’t Sleaford, mister.* 
AD Joanna’s usual pertness is in her elfish tone and 

face. 

“ What is it, then ?” 

“Don’t know, and don’t care. Sleaford’s Joanna 
does as good as anything else.” 

She begins to whistle — then breaks off to laugh 
shrilly. 

“ You’ll know me next time for certain. What are 
you starin’ at? It ain’t good manners, old gentle- 
man.” 

To tell the truth, he is staring as Joanna has never 
been stared at before in her life, a blank expression of 
new-born eonsternation in his face. 

“ Little girl,” he says, “ I am Mr. Abbott, and I 
want you to answer me a few questions. Who are you, 
if you are not Sleaford’s daughter?” 

“ Told you before I didn’t know. I don’t tell lies. 
You mightn’t think so, but I don’t. It’s sneaky. 
Picked me up in a gutter, he says. Wish he’d left me 
there. Gutter’s better than his house any day.” 

“ How old are you ?” 

“Jest gone twelve.” 

“Do you remember nothing of the time befora 
you lived with Sleaford ? Nothing of your father or 
mother ?” 

“ Never. Had none, maybe. Grew in the gutter, 
1 guess. Say, mister, it’s getting late. I want to go 
home.” 

“ Go, then,” he says, mechanically. 

He draws back, and she darts off fleetly as a squir- 


WHAT THE TEAKS MAKE OF JOAlfWA. 126 


rel. He stands and watches her out of sight, that 
blank expression still on his face. 

“ Of all that could happen I never thought of that,** 
he mutters. “ I never thought Black Giles was so 
deep. No, I thought of everything, but I’m blessed 
if I ever thought of thaV'* 

She has disappeared, and the dinner-bell is sum- 
moning the master of the house. He turns up the 
avenue, but all that day, and for many days after, 
John Abbott muses and muses, and is strangely silent 
and still. 

And so it comes to pass, that from that day a new 
life begins for Sleaford’s Joanna. 


PART SECOND. 


CHAPTER L 


WHAT THE TEABS MAKE OP JOANNA. 



IT is a December afternoon, and brightly, 
crisply clear. The last yellow light of the 
wintry sunset, shining in between parted 
curtains of lace and heavy crimson drap- 
ery, falls upon a young girl seated at a grand piano, 
touching the keys with flexible, strong fingers, and 
Binging in a full, rich contralto, that makes every- 
thing in the room vibrate. It is the winter drawing- 
room of Abbott Wood, a spacious and splendid apart 


126 TTHAT TUB tlCARS MAKE OF JOATOA* 


ment, vast and lofty, but the trained, powerfu.' voici 
fills it easily. She is singing exercises and solfeggios ; 
she has been so practicing for the past hour, running 
up in showers of silvery high notes, holding the high- 
est, sometimes, so long and steadily that you gasped 
^rom sympathy, and then running down the scale 
until the last low, sweet tone melted into the chords 
her fingers struck. The girl is young — seventeen — 
tall, slight, a little angular at present, but promising 
well for the future. She is dressed in a black alpaca 
that has seen service, and which is neither particularly 
neat nor well-fitting — a rusty garment, that looks dis- 
tinctly out of place in that glowing room. Her hair, 
of which she has a profusion, and which is red-brown 
in hue, but more red than brown, is knotted up in a 
loose and careless knot, without the slightest attempt 
at the becoming. Her face is pale and thin, the fea- 
tures good, but the expression set and severe for 
seventeen. 

** What a peculiar-looking girl 1” people say of her 
when they see her first, and are apt to look again with 
some curiosity. “She is not pretty at all, but it is 
rather a — a striking face,” and the word describes it 
very well. It is not pretty ; it is far from plain ; and 
it is a face most people are apt to look at more than 
once. It is what five years have made of Sleaford’s 
Joanna. 

Five years I They work changes from twelve to 
seventeen ; this is wh at five years, much care, instruc- 
tion, and painstaking on the part of good Miss Rice 
have made Joanna. A slim young person, with a face 
that seldom smiles ; an undmited capacity for discon- 
tent with her own life, that increases every day ot 


WHAT THE TEARS MAKE OE JOAKHA. 


that life ; an utter apathy as to dress, tidiness, needle- 
work ; a conviction that she is hopelessly ugly, and 
that it is of no use wasting time trying to redeem that 
ugliness ; a d^Ucious voice, a tolerable amount of pro- 
ficiency as a pianist — that is Joanna. 

She sits alone. Voices and laughter — young 
voices — reach her from the grounds ; once her name 
is called, but she pays no heed. A gay group are out 
there, enjoying the windless winter evening, but with 
gayety this girl has little — has ever had little — to do. 
"Wild Joanna she can be called no longer ; she seems 
quiet enough ; Sleaford’s Joanna she is still — the 
household drudge, even as she was five years ago, with 
work-reddened, work-hardened hands. She grows 
tired of exercises after a little, and begins, almost un- 
consciously, to sing snatches of songs — English, Ger- 
man, Italian — a very pot-pourri. Then, all at once, she 
strikes a few solemn, resounding chords, and begins 
Rossini’s “ Stabat Mater,” and the instrument quivers 
with force of those grand tones — 

Oujus ftPiTniim gementum 1” 

It is a glorious anthem, sung with passion, pathos, and 
power. 

Bravo !” says a voice ; ‘‘encore, mademoiselle. If 
1 had a bouquet I would throw it.” 

She glances round and smiles, and when she smiles 
you discover for the first time that this girl might be 
almost handsome if she chose. For she has a rare 
smile, that quite transforms her sallow, moody face. 
She has very fine teeth, too, not in the least like pearls, 
but fully equal to those beautiful enameled half cirolei 
that grin at you from dental show-cases. 


128 WHAT THE YBAES MAKE OF JOAKNA. 


“ Sing ‘ When Swallows Build,’ Joanna,” says th4 
n«w-oomer, throwing himself on a sofa near, and look 
ing at her with kindly eyes. 

It is Geoffrey Lamar down for the Christmas f©a 
tivities — Geoffrey at twenty-one, not so very much 
unlike the Geoffrey of sixteen. Grown taller, though 
•till not tall, looking strong and well-trained, both as 
to muscle and mind, retaining that resolute mouth and 
chin, retaining also that slightly haughty air, and those 
deep-set, steadfast, sea-gray eyes. He retains every- 
thing, even that pleasant friendly regard for Sleaford’s 
Joanna, to which she is indebted for her power to-day 
to make the room ring with the “ Stabat Mater.” 

She turns over the music, and finds the song. 
“ What have you done with the others ?” she asks, 
carelessly. 

“ Oh ! Livingston is there, and where girls are con- 
cerned he is always a host in himself. There were a 
great many pretty people present at the Ventnors’ last 
night,” says Geoffrey, laughing, “but Frank was the 
belle of the ball. Do you want me to turn your 
music, Joanna? Because, if you do, I will sacrifice 
comfort to politeness and get up.” 

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” Joanna answers. 
“ As you work so hard all the rest of the year, I sup 
pose you claim the right to be lazy at Christmaft. 
And besides, I am not used to politeness.” 

“No?” says Geoffrey, and looks at her thought- 
fully ; “ it strikes me you seem a trifle out of sorts of 
late, Joanna. You are as thin as a shadow and nearly 
as mute. Tell me — ^is it the old trouble ? Do these 
people treat you badly still ?” 

She shrugs her shoulders, an impatient, ireful look 


WHAT THE TEAES MAKE OF JOANNA. 12fi 

darkens her face. “ What does it matter,” she says, 
in a voice of irritated weariness. “ I ought to be used 
to it by this, but the trouble with me is, I get used to 
nothing. Do not mind my looks — I am always thin 
and cross — it is natural, I suppose ; and as to being 
mute, when one has nothing pleasant to say one had 
best hold one’s tongue. Every one is good to me here, 
better than I deserve. That ought to suffice.” 

She begins her song, but the impatient ring is yet 
in her voice. Geoffrey lies still and watches her. He 
has the interest in her we all have in the thing we 
have saved and protected ; he would like to see her 
repay that interest by blooming looks and bright 
laughter ; but his power fails, something is amiss. 
She is educated, refined, cared for, but she is not 
happy — he has a vague, uneasy suspicion she is not 
particularly good. Antagonistic influences are at 
work, driving her two ways at once — here all is lux- 
ury, refinement, high-breeding, tender care — there all 
is coarseness, vulgarity, brutal usage. Long ago Giles 
Sleaford was implored to give her up altogether, but 
he obstinately and doggedly refused. 

“She is not your daughter,” Geoffrey has urged. 
“You do not care for her. Give her to us. She is 
none of yours.” 

“ How d’ye know that, youngster ?” Sleaford says, 
a cunning look in his bleary eyes. “ I never said so, 
an’ I’m the only one as knows.” 

“ Well, if she is, then, you should have her welfare 
at heart. Let her come to us for good and all. She 
is attached to my mother, and would like it.” 

“ Ah ! I dare say I She’s a lazy jade, an’ would like 
to be a fine lady, with nothin’ to do but play the 


130 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOAJOTA. 


pianny and sing songs. But it won’t do, young gent 
I don’t see it no way. I ain’t goin’to give up Joanna.* 

If money is any inducement ” begins Geoffrey 

after a pause. He is exceedingly tenacious of purpose 
— he hates to give up anything on which he has once 
set his mind. 

‘‘Look a here, young gentleman,” says Giles Slea 
ford ; “ I ain’t got no spite agin you. You’re a game 
youiig rooster, and I respects yer. But let this here 
come to an end. I won’t give up Joanna to you or no 
living man. That gal’s the trump card in my hand, 
though the time ain’t come to play her yet. She may 
keep on goin’ to your ’ouse — I’ve said so, and I’ll stick 
to it — but back here she comes, rain or shine, every 
night for life. Now drop it 1” 

And so, night after night, Joanna turns from the 
beauty and grandeur of Abbott Wood to the bleak 
ugliness and disorder of the Red Farm ; from good- 
natured Miss Rice to scolding Liz, or sneering Lora ; 
from the stately kindness of Mrs. Abbott to the im- 
precations of Black Giles ; from the melodies of 
Chopin and Schubert to the grimy kitchen labor, the 
wash-board and scrubbing-brush of Sleaford’s. It is 
an abnormal life, two existences, glaringly wide apart, 
and the girl is simply being ruined between them. 

“ Ah ! that is fine,” says a second voice, and a 
second face appears at the open window. “ My word 
of honor, Joanna, you Aave a voice ! Sing us some- 
thing else.” 

She starts a little, and something — it is so faint 
you can hardly call it color — flashes into her face. She 
does not glance round, her fingers strike a discoid ant 
ebord, she stops confusedly, her head droops a *jttle 


WHAT THE YEABS MAKE OF JOANNA. 131 


“ How like the Grand Turk, surveying his favorite 
Sultana, Lamar looks !” goes on, sarcastically, this 
voice ; “ stretched out there, drinking in all this meh 
ody. Luxurious sybarite, bid the Light of the Harem 
sing us another She pays no attention to my defer- 
ential request.” 

But before Lamar can obey, Joanna has begun 
again. Without notes this time, some subtile chord of 
memory awakened, she sings a song she has not 
thought of for years, the first she ever sung in this 
house — JVbbody^s Child. 

There is a pause. The trite saying of “ tears in 
the voice ” comes to the mind of Geoffrey — pain, 
pathos, passion, are in the simple words. She feels 
them — oh ! she feels them to the very depths of her 
soul. Nameless, homeless, parentless, a waif and 
stray, a castaway of the city streets — nothing more. 
All the kind charity, the friendly good-nature of these 
rich people, cannot alter that. 

As she sings the last words, two young girls, who 
have been lingering in the door-way, unwilling to dis- 
turb the music, enter. A greater contrast to the 
words she has been singing, to the singer herself, can 
hardly be imagined. They are heiresses, both ; they 
have everything this girl has not — name, lineage, 
wealth, beauty, love. They are Olga Ventnor and 
Leo Abbott. 

They advance. Leo’s arm is around Olga’s waist ; 
she is one of the clinging, affectionate sort of httfe 
people, as addicted to caresses as to honhom. She 
hardly comes up to Olga’s shoulder, though but a year 
younger. She is a pretty little brunette of fifteei^ 
plump, pale, dark-ejed, dark-haired, dressed in tha 


132 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF TOANNA. 


daintiest and brghtest of costumes. She wor«hip« 
Olga, and looks up to her ; she is her ideal, iihmenseij 
wiser, and more grown up than herself — her superior 
in every way. 

Miss Olga Ventnor, at sixteen, is certainly a very 
fair young lady. Tall, slight, erect, graceful, the 
delicate head proudly poised, and “ sunning over with 
curls,” still worn girlish fashion, loose on her shoulders, 
the flower face ” quite without flaw, a little proud, 
perhaps, but very, very lovely. The eyes are more 
purple than blue — “ pansy eyes ” a stricken youth of 
eighteen has been known to call them — a thought cold 
in expression, but rarely beautiful. She is dressed in 
pale gray silk, very simply made, and trimmed wit! 
garnet velvet, a ribbon of the same color tying bad 
her profuse blonde hair — no rings, brooches, bracelets 
jewelry of any kind, yet looking, from top to toe, th* 
superb princess her Cousin Frank calls her. 

It is the said Cousin Frank who stands at tht 
window. He saunters in now, and what the year 
have done for him is to transform an extremely good 
looking youth of seventeen into an extremely hand 
some young man of twenty-two, with a most desirabl* 
light mustache, quick, restless blue eyes, a vivaciou 
society manner, and a pensive way of looking at younf 
ladies, and bending over them, and holding their faa 
and quoting poetry at them, that even at two-ani 
twenty he has found very eflPective. That Mr. Fran! 
is a flirt of the most pronounced male order, and hai 
been consumed by four grand passions already, is 4 
matter of history. He has a studio on Broadway, ani 
paints young ladies’ heads very prettily. He is als\ 
eelebrated as the best leader of Germans in the city^ 


WHAT THE YEABS MAKE OF JOATfHA. 133 


and, in short, is an ornament and acquisition to society. 
He* too, IS down for the Christmas festivities, and to 
make himself agreeable to his Cousin Olga, home 
from school. Leo does not go to school — masters and 
Miss Rice fuse knowledge into her at home. 

“ Why do you sing that, Jo ?” Leo says, quitting 
her friend, and putting that caressing right arm 
around the pianist instead. “ It is a melancholy little 
thing, and we don’t want melancholy little things this 
happy Christmas time. Do not sing it any more.” 

She touches the untidy reddish hair with a gentle 
touch. She is a loving little heart, and she is very 
sorry lor this poor Joanna, who has such a hard life, 
and such disagreeable relations. It comes naturally 
to her to love all by whom she is surrounded, to be 
generous, and unselfish, and impulsive, and without a 
particle of pride. In this last, she is quite unlike 
mother, brother, and bosom friend. Miss Yentnoi 
glances across, but does not go near the piano. She 
crosses to a distant window instead, and Geoffrey 
Lamar gets lazily up from his recumbent position, and 
joins her. 

‘^It will certainly snow to-morrow,” the young 
lady says, looking up with those great “ pansy eyes ” 
at the twilight sky. “ I am very glad. A green yule 
— you know the proverb. Christmas without snow 
and sleigh-bells — nature could not make a greater mis- 
take.” 

‘‘ What lovely eyes !” Geoffrey Lamar thinks. 

He has thought so often before, but each time they 
meet after a few months’ separation, this girl’s beauty 
strikes him with the force of a new revelation. He 
looks across at Frank Livingston, devoting himself to 


134 WHAl TH^ YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 

little laughing Leo, with that empressement he considera 
this sort of thing needs, and his straight strong eye^ 
brows contract. The sapphire eyes may be nevei sc 
bright, but they are bespoken. 

Other eyes, black and somber, watch covertly 
Frank’s flirtation. Leo is a little girl, he cares nothing 
about her, he is merely keeping his hand in, it is never 
well to get out of practice, but he looks at the same 
time as if Miss Abbott were the only creature of her 
sex in the universe. 

“Do look at Joanna,” Olga says; “what a dark 
and angry face.” 

“ Truly,” Geoffrey utters, in some surprise. 

Her face does look dark, angry, menacing ; she 
strikes the chords of the piano as though it were an 
enemy’s face. 

“ What is the matter with her ? A moment ago 
ahe was all right. She is an odd girl — a girl of moods 
and whims.” 

“ A girl I do not like,” Olga Ventnor says, with a 
very decided uplifting of the head ; “ a girl I fear and 
distrust. I wonder how you all can make so much, of 
her, Geoffrey — can think so well of her. I do not wish 
to injure her, but I could never like her, or treat her 
M Leo does. Not that there is much in that,” she 
adds, laughing, “dear little Leo loves all the world.” 

“You do not like her — you do not trust her,” 
Geoffrey repeats ; “ now why, I wonder ! If it is be- 
cause of your first meeting ” 

“ That was nothing,” Olga says, in the same quick 
decided tone. “I have forgotten and forgiven that 
long ago. She was only a wild, half-savage child then. 
It is now I do not trust her. She is quiet, she says 


TTHAT THE TEARS MAKE OP JOANE 1. 135 


little, she is attar^ed to your mother, she likes Leo a 
dttle, she studies hard, she siugs well, she keeps her 
place, but ” 

“Well,” he “^ays, smiling, “go on. What a wise- 
acre you are W3oming. But ” 

He likes to hear her talk, to be with her, to look in 
those deei). purple eyes, to meet that radiant smile. 
She is a beautiful creature, so brightly beautiful that 
it is a delight only to look at her. 

“It is not so easy to explain what I mean. You 
have read of men who tame animals? They cake a 
young tiger and feed it on milk. It grows up, gentle, 
sleek, playful as a kitten. One day they give it raw 
meat, the next it turns on its keeper, without warning 
or provocation, and tears him to pieces. Joanna is 
like that tiger — to be trusted no more than the tiger. 
You look shocked. I cannot help it. I know she is 
your protegee^ and that you are bound to defend her, 
but it is the truth all the same. I do not know it, I 
feel it. And one day you will see. Now, do not let 
us talk about her. What are you doing in town? 
Walking the hospitals? How dreadful! What do 
you want, studying medicine ? As if you ever meant 
to practice ! Being a ‘ Saw-bones,’ a ‘ Bob Sawyei 1’ ** 
she laughs, the clear girlish laugh that is sweeter than 
all Joanna’s music to his ears. “ I like Bob Sawyer, 
but at the same time there is no sense in your follow- 
ing his foot-steps. You know you never mean to be a 
doctor.” 

“ Indeed, that is precisely what I do mean ; what I 
hope, what I am positively sure I shall be this time 
next year. Let me write M. D. after my name, and J 
die happy.” 


136 WHAT THE YEARS MAKE OF JOANNA. 


“ You will never be a doctor,” the young lady 
^eats, in her decided way ; she is used to having 
{^pinions of her own, and having them listened to with 
/espect ; “ that is to say, a practicing doctor. It is 
roar whim, your hobby, and a very horrid one, I 
^hink. What dreadful sights you must see, what 
shocking suffering, what frightful disease.” 

“Yes,” he answers, gravely, “God knows I do — 
sights, suffering, I pray you may never dream of. 
But to ameliorate all that, to heal the suffering, to 
give health to disease, to soothe pain, is not that a 
godlike mission, Olga ?” 

“To those to whom the sight and suffering are 
necessary — yes — to you, no. One need not witness 
the misery of others in order to alleviate it. You are 
going to be very rich ; you will not work as a doctor. 
There are enough without you, and they need it more 
than you do.” 

He sn.iles at her, at the fair, earnest, proud young 
face. 

“ You talk like my mother. What a wise little 
lady you are, princess ! If I thought you could really 

take an interest in the matter ” he stops, the color 

coming into his face. 

“ I take an interest in all my friends,” Miss Vent- 
nor says, with great calm. “Frank, are we going 
home to dinner, or are we not ? Because I believe we 
promised mamma ” 

Livingston needs no second bidding. He rises 
with alacrity, and is at her side in an instant. Half 
an hour of Leo has bored him ; the art of flirtation is 
one of the lost arts, so far as she is concerned, and 
Lamar has monopolized Olga long enough. 


WHAT THE TEARS MAKE OF JOAlfHA. 187 

"1 am so Borry you must go,” Leo says, plaintively 
‘‘but as your mamma is ill, and you have to take hev 
place, Olga, I suppose you must. Good-by, dear. 
sure you come early to-morrow evening.” 

For to-morrow is Leo’s birthday, and there is to 
be a gathering of the clans and a dance. 

The four stand together, a charming group of 
young heads and fair faces. The fifth looks at them, 
and holds herself aloof. She is as young as they, sh« 
might be as fair under other circumstances, but she is 
not of them ; unlike them, she has not spoken a word, 
she has played on steadily, no one knows what. They 
hear the piano, they see the performer, and one is 
nearly as much to them as the other. They are kind 
to her — yes, polite to her always, and there are times 
when she would rather they struck her. She is Slea- 
ford’s Joanna — they are of the golden youth of the 
earth, well-born, high-bred. Heaven and earth are 
not farther apart than they. 

Geoffrey and Leo go out with their guests. The 
windless, mild December twilight, gray and star- 
studded, is beautiful, as they saunter to the gate. 

“ And Olga predicts snow,” says Geoffrey, laugh 
ing, “ in the face of that sky.” 

“ If she predicts it you may be sure it will come,” 
says Frank. “ The elements themselves dare not op- 
pose the imperial will of the Princess Olga !” 

“Look at the new moon !” cries Leo, “and wish. 
What are you wishing for, Geoff ? — what do you wish 
for, Olga ? I wish for a snow-storm to-morrow, and 
then a lovely night.” 

They all look. What do they all wish for ? Geof 
frey’s eyes rest on Olga, before he looks at the sky. 


138 117 WHICH .TOAHHA EHTEES 300IETT. 


0is wish might be read, if there were eyes to read it 
Olga looks up too — for \vhat does beautiful Olga Vent- 
nor wish ? 


“ ‘I saw the new moon late yes’treen, 

Wi’ the auld moon in her airms,’” 

ihe quotes. ‘‘I see her now. Do not come any far- 
ther, Leo, in your bare head. It grows chilly ; you 
may catch cold.” 

So they part. All the way back to the house Leo 
chatters, but Geoffrey is silent. 

“We have left Joanna alone all this time,” she 
says, as they re-enter, “beg pardon, Jo, but — why, she 
has gone !” 

She has gone. She has risen a moment after they 
left, taken her hat, gone out of a side door, and gone 
home. The grand portico entrance is not for her, and 
the home she goes to is Sleaford’s. 


CHAPTER n. 

IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 

AMMA,” says Leo Abbott, “ I wonder why 
papa dislikes Joanna so much ?” 

They make a pretty picture, mother 
and daughter. Mrs. Abbott, gracious 
and handsome as ever, sits at her embroidery-frame, 
with a basket of silks, and floss, and zephyr, in rain- 
bow shades, beside her. She is making tapestry, like 
a ^lediseval oountess in a baronial hall — a huge piece. 



ijr WHICH JOAIfNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 139 


With four large figures. It 1*5 a Scriptural subject, 
“ Susanna and the Elders,” though at this stage of 
proceedings it is not so easy to tell which is Susanna, 
and which are the elders. Leo nestles on a footstool 
at her feet. She is one of the caressing sort, who al- 
ways nestle on footstools and cushions, like kittens, 
and who like to purr, and be petted. There is no 
affectation about it — it is all very natural and very 
pretty in Leo. 

The lady looks up from her frame, and her dark, 
large-lidded eyes rest on her daughter. 

“ Are you not mistaken ?” she says, quietly. “ Why 
should your papa dislike Joanna ?” 

‘‘ Ah ! why indeed ? I am sure I do not know — I 
think Joanna charming. All the same, papa dislikes 
her — more, he looks sometimes as if he were actually 
afraid of her !” 

“ Afraid ! my child, what nonsense you talk.” 

But the inflection of Mrs. Abbott’s voice as she 
says it is perfectly calm — the faintest of smiles dawns 
about her mouth, as she takes a fresh needleful of 
gold-colored silk, and puts a long, slanting stitch in 
Susanna’s back hair. As if anything of this wonder- 
ful discovery was new to her ! 

“ Well, perhaps it is nonsense,” says Leo, resign- 
edly ; “all I have to say, mamma, is, you watch papa 
the next time he and Joanna meet, and see for your- 
self.” 

Mrs. Abbott’s amused smile deepens. 

“ My dear,” she remarks, “ I will, if you will tell 
me this — when do they ever meet 

Leo looks up at her with puzzled eyes— then slowly 
% light breaks upon her. 


140 IN WniOH JOANNA BNTEBS SOOIBTT. 


“ That is true,” she says, amazedly ; “ they never dc 
meet. I have never seen them in a room together is 
all these years ! Now, how is tliat, I wonder?” 

‘‘ Watch and see,” replies Mrs. Abbott, enigmati 
cally, taking some bister-hued flees this time, to shade 
the eldest Elder’s complexion. “ What has started the 
subject now ?” 

“ Why, this. Half an hour ago, after I left Miss 
Rice, and before Joanna had come, papa called me 
out to take a walk with him in the grounds I went, 
and as we were going down the laburnum walk, Joanna 
came up — she generally does take that side entrance. 
The moment papa saw her, he stopped in what he was 
saying, looking so flurried, you cannot think, and drew 
me with him between the trees. ‘ I don’t want to meet 
that young woman,’ he said. But, mamma, he watched 
her out of sight with the strangest look ! It was 
exactly (only that is absurd) as if he was frightened 
— as if he was afraid of her /” 

“Well, my dear, you do not generally stand in awe 
of your papa — why did you not ask him about it ?’' 
says mamma. 

“ Oh 1 I said : ‘ Why, papa, what is the matter ? 

You do look so oddly ! You are not afraid of our 
Joanna, are you ?’ He gave me such a look — as cross 
as he can look at me, and he says ‘ Afraid ! that be 
blowed ! And our Joanna, too ! Who made her 
yours, I wonder ! I don’t like her, and I don’t like to 
see her gadding here. She’s no fit chum for you — a 
gentleman’s daughter, by Jove !’ ” 

Leo mimics her father’s blustering voice so welli 
that Mrs. Abbott has to laugh. 

“ Then he told me to run away into the house, and 


DT WHICH JOANN i ENTEES 3O0IETr. 141 


went off by himself. But it is very odd, I think. I 
am sure Joanna has the manner of a lady — when she 
likes — and is good enough to be companion to any- 
body.” 

“Ah ! when she likes !” repeats Mrs. Abbott, sig- 
nificantly. There is a pause. “Your friend, Olga, 
seems to share in your papa’s dislike, Leo,” she says, 
still absorbed in the Elder’s leathery complexion. 

“Yes,” Leo answers, thoughtfully; “Olga does 
not like Joanna, and there is not much love lost, I 
think. Joanna, mamma,” laughs Leo, “could be one 
of the good haters old Dr. Johnson liked, if she chose. 
I will tell you though who does like her more than his 
mother would quite approve of, I guess, if she knew.” 

“Who?” demands Mrs. Abbott, looking startled, 
and letting the “ I guess ” slip in the excitement of the 
moment. 

“George Blake — Miss Rice’s nephew, you know. 
He comes here sometimes with Frank to play croquet 
He is in the office of a New York daily paper, and is 
quite clever, they say, and he runs down here once or 
twice a week, to see his mother — he saysP^ Leo 
laughs. 

“ You think it is not to see his mother ?” 

“ I think it is to see Joanna. You always send our 
Perkins home with her when she is here late, and 
George Blake waylays them, and takes Jo out of his 
hands. Perkins walks behind until they reach Slea- 
ford’s, then he touches his hat, says ‘ good-night. Miss,* 
and comes home and tells the others. And then I have 
•een him watch Jo when we all play croquet.” 

“It seems to me you see a great deal, little Leo,” 
•ays mammftj reprovingly. “ Fifteen-year-old eyes and 


142 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTEB8 SOOIBTY. 


ears should not be quite so sharp, and you should 
never, never on any account hearken to the gossip of 
servants.” 

Miss Leo blushes. Her mamma Las not permitted 
her to read many novels, she has seen next to no 
“ grown-up ” society at all ; all the same her feminine 
soul tells her George Blake is a victim to the tender 
passion, and consumed with love for Joanna. 

‘‘Does this George Blake make much money?” in- 
quires Mrs. Abbott, after another pause, deserting the 
Elder and returning to Susanna, her mind projecting 
Itself into the future of her protegee. After all, the 
young man might make a very good husband for the 
girl. 

“ Fifteen dollars a week,” responds Leo, promptly, 
“ and he pays seven out of that for his board ! And I 
don’t think Joanna would make a good housekeeper^ 
or manage on fifteen dollars a week. And besides, 
she wouldn’t have him.” 

“ My dear !” says her mother, smiling again. 

“ Oh, no, she wouldn’t, mamma,” Leo iterates with 
conviction ; “ she treats him with the greatest disdain, 
scolds him when he meets her, and sometimes makes 
him go back. But he meets her next time just the 
same. I wonder what Miss Rice would say ? She is 
awfully proud of George, thinks he is going to be a 
Horace Greeley by and by ” 

There is a tap at the door. It proves to be Miss 
Rice in person, who wishes to know if Miss Leo will 
come and practice that duet she is to sing to-night 
with Joanna. So Leo goes, and Mrs. Abbott takes 
another strand of pale gold silk, and looks at Susanna’s 
flowing tresses with a very thoughtful face. 


IN WinCH JOANNA ENTEES SOOIETT 14d 


She thinks of Joanna and her husband. What 
Lee has discovered to-day for the first time is a very 
old story to Leo’s mother. It surprised ner at first, 
it puzzles her still, but she does not object to it — she 
has found it useful in more ways than one. Mr. 
Abbott, in words, has never, since that first day, 
objected in the least to the presence of Geoffrey’s 
ward, as they call her, but in action he has objected 
to her, all these five years, as strongly as man can. 
He avoids her as he might a snake ; if they meet by 
chance he beats a retreat ; if she enters a room where 
he is, he leaves it ; he breaks off whatever he is saying 
to listen to her when she speaks. If she stays for 
dinner, as she has on one or two occasions, he dines in 
solitude. 

This is all very remarkable, but more remarkable 
still is that look his face assumes at sight of her ; that 
look is so extraordinarily like one of shrinking fear. 
Who is this girl ? What is she to the Sleafords ? 
What to her husband, that all this should be so? 
What seciet binds him and this man Sleaford together 
in its dark tie r 

For Joanna, she is evidently unconscious of her 
power. She sees that Mr. Abbott avoids and dislikes 
her, but she is used to that, and does not mind. She 
dislikes him in turn, so they are quits. That she has 
any further hold upon him, she is unaware. Mrs. 
Abbott thinks of all this, but she has little desire to 
lift the vail ; the screen that hides her husband’s past 
life is a merciful one ; she shrinks from ever knowing 
irhat lies behind. If she doea not wish for the pres- 
•joce of Mr. Abbott, when her children’s young friends 
assemble at Abbott Wood, shir has but to keep Jo- 


144 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 


anna by her side — he will not come. She takes ad ran 
tage of this to see rather more company than was hei 
wont. Joanna’s presence is a guarantee that Mr. Ab- 
bott’s uncultured remarks will not put her to the blush 

Brightbrook has some very desirable residents now, 
very nice people, indeed, who come there for the 
summer, and there is abundance of pleasant society 
for Leo. Mr. Abbott intrudes not, for Joanna is 
always there to sing. Long ago, Mrs. Abbott, who 
really likes the girl, would have taken her to Abbott 
Wood “ for good ” had Giles Sleaford not resolutely 
refused to give her up. 

Those five years have not altered him in any way, 
except that he daily grows more besotted with drink 
and “dry rot.” He lets Mr. Abbott comparatively 
alone ; his pockets are always well filled, his girls and 
boys well dressed, the old rude plenty reigns at the 
farmstead, the old “ swarrys ” still obtain, it is the 
rendezvous of a very lively lot of young men and 
maidens. People have grown to accept Sleaford and 
his thriftless family, and pretty well ceased to wonder 
at his connection with Mr. Abbott. A billionaire is a 
|>rivileged being. They are proud of Abbott Wood 
and its burly lord ; he has in a great measure made the 
place, he is the Seigneur of the soil, owns half the vil- 
lage, and the big white hotel that in summer is so well 
and fashionably filled. Hillside breezes, trout streams, 
gunning, boating, bathing, fishing (see prospectus), all 
are here, and city folk come with their wives and little 
ones, their maid servants, and man servants (some- 
times), and enjoy them. 

Mrs. Abbott likes Joanna, and takes an interest in 
her welfare. Yes, but Joanna loves Mis. Abbott, 


IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 145 

reveres her, admires her, thinks her the most heauti 
fal, accomplished, and perfect being on earth. Hei 
worship of this great lady is, to a certain extent, her 
religion, her salvation. If she is tempted to do wrong, 
to give way to passion, the thought, “Mrs. Abbott 
will not like it,” \s sufficient to restrain her. Her 
smile is Joanna’s guerdon, her praise the girl’s delight, 
to please her is the highest ambition of her life. The 
lady has tried to teach her, to make a Christian of her, 
to give her yet a higher standard, but it is not so easy 
to evangelize this young heathen. The leopard does 
not change his spots ; Joanna does not change her 
nature in spite of beautiful music, painted windows, 
embroidered altar-cloths, and the flowery periods of 
the Rev. Ignatius Lamb. She listens, and chafes in- 
wardly — and yet, as constant dropping will wear a 
stone, so five years of this have subdued the girl, and 
made her turn her thoughts, with a certain stricken 
awe, to those great truths she reads and hears. There 
is a Heaven, and she may go to it, she, Sleaford’s 
Joanna, quite as readily as fair Olga Ventnor herself. 
That fact she has grasped, and it does her good, in- 
creases her self-respect, and spurs her on to better 
things. She is far less fierce, she gives up bad lan- 
guage, she tries to listen in silence to the taunts and 
sneers at home, to rise superior to her surroundings. 
But oh ! it is weary work — it is a never-ending strug- 
gle ; she falls back again and again, the old bitterness, 
the old despair, clutch her hardly at times. Envy, 
hatred, and all uncharitableness devour her heart, and 
tear it to pieces between them. It is an abnormal life 
she leads, two lives, and she is supremely miserable. 
She strives to be content, to be thankful — it is impoi* 

7 


146 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTEHS SOCIETY. 


sible. She loves Mrs. Abbott, she reveres her, she 
would do anything in the world to win her praise— the 
best of this poor Joanna begins and ends there. To 
her she is passionately grateful ; to the rest of the 
world her heart is like a stone. Even to Geoffrey, her 
first friend, she is almost apathetic — she likes Leo, that 
is all. There is, perhaps, one other exception, but this 
exception only adds to her unhappiness — it fills her 
with a gnawing, miserable unrest. She feels wicked 
and helpless, and all the time she longs to be good, to 
be noble, to be true. Her good and bad angels war 
strongly for the soul of Joanna. 

Long ago she confessed her first sin — her attack 
upon Olga Ventnor. She goes to Mrs. Abbott and 
confesses it voluntarily, looking downcast and ashamed. 
The lady listens very gravely. 

“ I feared so,” she says: “ it is good of you to con- 
fess it, Joanna. To be sorry for a fault is to amend 
it. But I think you ought to apologize to Miss 
Ventnor.” 

“Oh!” Joanna says, with a gasp — Thai is quite 
another thing — to tell this kind, good, gentle lady is 
easy. 

“I think you ought. It nearly killed her. She 
does not suspect, and she will meet you here. I do 
not order you to do so — I leave it to your own con- 
science. But I think you ought.” 

That is all. There is a struggle in the wild heart 
of Sleaford’s Joanna — the first struggle between right 
and wrong, and right conquers. She goes lingeringly 
up to Olga Ventnor, standing for a moment alone, and 
stammers out her confession. 

^ was me,” she says, confusedly. “ I didn’t meai 


IN WHICH JOANNA ENTEBS SOClETr. 147 


to hurt you — only to cut off your hair. I’m very sorry. 
I hope you — you don’t mind !” 

“ Fow/” Olga exclaims, horror in her eyes. All 
the terror of that terrible time returns to her. She 
tooks at her with fear, with abhorrence, and turns and 
flies. 

Joanna stands mute motionless. Half an hour 
after, when Olga, her first panic over, and ashamed of 
what she has done, returns, she finds her standing 
there still. 

“ I am sorry,” Olga says, but her head is very erect 
as she says it — she does not look sorry. “I do not 
mind in the least — now. I did not think when I ran 
away. I hope you do not mind.” 

The black eyes look at her. They are so fierce, so 
full of hatred, that Olga recoils. 

“ I will mind as long as I live !” Joanna says, and 
turns from her, striking down the hand she has half 
held out. 

So ends Joanna’s first impulse to try and bo 
‘‘ good.” Alas I most of her impulses end in the 
game way. 

« « mm* 

There are lights, and flowers, and fair faces, and 
music, and feasting in silent, stately Abbott Wood to- 
night, for the little daughter of the house is fifteen, 
and her friends, and Olga’s and Geoffrey’s are down 
from the city in force to wish her many happy returns. 
She has had her wish. It has snowed all day, and now 
the moon, a brilliant Christmas sickle, shines down on 
glistening snow, black, bare trees, gaunt hedges and 
avenues, but it is windless, and still mild. It is no 
green yule, and great fires blaze high in gleaming 


148 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOCIETY. 


grates, for no abomination of pipes or registers dese* 
crate winter at Abbott Wood. The “mistletoe 
bough ” hangs from the drawing-room ceiling, though 
the custom of kissing under it is more honored in the 
bleach than the observance ; holly, and arbutus, and 
winter berries adorn, walls and windows, and there are 
flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere. A tolerably 
large company are coming — nearly all young people, 
for it is understood it is little more than a girl’s party, 
after all. 

“ Remember ! come early, Joanna,” is Mrs. Abbott’s 
last injunction j “ and be in your best looks and voice 
to-night.” 

Joanna shrugs her shoulders. 

“My looks do not matter in the least. My voice I 
will try and have to order,” is her answer. It is for 
her voice she is here, she knows, not for herself. 

She comes early, and dresses in a little room that 
is kept for her use. There is so much envy and 
bickering with Lora and Liz, that she keeps but few 
of her things at home. Mrs. Abbott provides her 
dressfts, of course, but simple ones always. Joanna 
will have nothing else, and Mrs. Abbott sees that 
gayety would not accord with the fitness of things. 
She wears to-night a dress of dark-blue silk, but so 
plainly made that nothing could be less smart ; a gold 
cross and chain ; her abundant reddish hair braided 
as tightly and compactly as possible about her small 
head, and she is ready. And she looks very well — 
“ slim and genteel, and quite the lady,” Mrs. Hill, the 
housekeeper, tells her, condescendingly, “only she 
ought to put a bit of pink ribbon or blue flower in her 
hair” 


IK WHICH JOAHNA ENTERS SOOIlTT. 14i 


Joanna laughs. 

“ To put pink ribbon in red hair would be to paint 
the lily, Mrs. Hill,” she says, good-bumoredly. Of 
personal vanity she has not a particle ; her red bail 
does not discompose her in the least. 

She goes down, and Mrs. Abbott glances at her 
approvingly. Quite plain, severely simple, yet well- 
dressed — it is as it should be ; Joanna does her no 
discredit. 

‘‘ If only you sing as well as you look, my dear, I 
shall be quite satisfied,” she says, kindly. 

Leo is there, all in white — a costly toilet, white 
lace over pearl-colored silk, and strands of pearls in 
her dark, perfumed hair. Her bronze eyes shine, her 
cheeks flush, her childish face is bright with excite- 
ment. She kisses Joanna in childish glee. Mr. Ab- 
bott reconnoiters once, sees Joanna, and flees. 

The company come early, and come rapidly — it is 
in the country — city hours do not obtain, and it is 
only Leo’s party. A number of youthful guests are 
staying in the house, nearly a dozen more come from 
Ventnor Villa, with Olga and Frank. 

Olga is like a vision, like an Undine, like a water- 
lily. She wears some pale, sheeny silk, half silvery, 
naif green, with quantities of tulle, and bunches of 
pale pink roses. Even Joanna catches her breath as 
she looks at her. That gold hair, that clear, star-like 
face, that imperial poise of head and shoulders, that 
exquisite water-nymph dress. 

“ Oh !” Joanna says, “ how lovely ! how lovely 1” 

“ How lovely I” a voice echoes. 

It is Geoffrey Lamar, whose deep gray eyes glow 
M they look on this Peri. A second later, and he is 


150 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOOIETT. 


by her side. Frank Livingston, looking insouciant 
and handsome, comes over to present his felicitatioca 
tc Miss Abbott. The rainbow throng meets, mingles, 
disperses. Joanna, in the shade of a great jardiniire^ 
watches it all. Frank engages Leo for the first dance , 
Geoffrey has Olga ; others seek partners ; dancing 
begins almost immediately. Colonel Ventnor seeks 
out Mr. Abbott in the library, and, with two other 
papas, enjoys a quiet game of whist. 

The band music rings merrily out, the young peo 
pie merrily dance. Joanna does not dance. Young 
ladies are in the majority — as it is in the nature of 
young ladies to be — and no one notices her until it is 
time to sing. Then she glides to the piano, at a 
signal from Mrs. Abbott, and her fine voice breaks 
through the chatter and hum, and talkers stop, per- 
force, to listen. She sings alone, then with Leo, then 
alone again, for people crowd around her, and there ia 
soft clapping of gloved hands and gentle murmurs of 
praise. 

“ Sing us a Christmas carol,” says Mrs. Yeotnor 
‘‘ to-morrow Is Christmas Eve.” 

She thinks a moment, and then, in a softened voice, 
a little tremulous, she sings a very old hymn ; 

“ Earthly friends may change and falter, 

Earthly friends may vary ; 

He is born, who cannot alter, 

Of the Virgin Mary.” 

*’Oh I how sweet !” Mrs. Ventnor says, tears in hei 
pyes; “please — please sing another, four ^oic© ijoet 
to my hearw*^^ 


IN WHICH JOANNA ENTEKS SOCIETY. 151 


The girl lifts two dark, melancholy, grateful eyei 
to the lady, and sings again : 

“ He neither shall be bom 
In housen nor in hall, 

Nor in the place of paradise, 

But in an ox’s stall. 

He neither shall be rock’d 
In silver nor in gold. 

But in a wooden manger 
That rocks upon the mold.” 

Then she rises, and they make way for her to pass 
frith a certain deference and wonder. 

“Who is she — that plain girl with the beautifa 
voice?” they ask in undertones. As she moves on 
Frank Livingston meets her, and holds out his hand. 

“ It is the first time I have had a glimpse of you to- 
night, Mademoiselle Cantatrice,” he says. “ You sing 
more and more like an angel every day. You always 
make me want to go into a corner and cry whenever 
you open your mouth !” 

Joanna laughs. The compliment is ambiguous, to 
say the least, but her somber face lights into moment- 
ary brightness at his careless words. The next moment 
he is gone. He has espied Olga standing in a window- 
recess alone. He bends above her, says something 
laughingly, encircles her slight waist with his arm. 
Only for a second — with a most decided motion she 
frees herself, and waves him off. It is all in a moment, 
but in that moment every trace of gladness leaves 
Joanna’s face. She turns angrily, frowningly away. 
She will not sing any more. She goes out of the ball- 
room, finds her shawl and hat, and sullenly quits the 
house. She glances back at the lighted windows with 
a darkling face. Music follows her, dancing is re* 


152 IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS SOOIETT* 


commencing, she will not be missed. She d>!>e8 not 
care if she is. 

She walks down under the black trees to the gate. 
There she stops, folds her arms on the top of the low 
stone wall, and stands still. There is nothing more 
coldly melancholy than moonlight on snow ; it suits 
her mood, this steel-cut landscape, all ebony and 
ivory. As she stands, a fi^^ure comes out of the 
shadow and approaches ner. She stares at it, but *n 
no surprise or alarm. 

“ Oh !” she says, ungraciously enough ; “ it is 
ycm /” 

“It is 1. I thought you would come out, Joanna. 
You mostly do, you know. Are you going home ?” 

“What are you doing here ?” Joanna demands, still 
ungraciously, and not moving. 

“ Oh, you know,” George Blake answers. “ It is 
my off-night, and I could not keep away. Try and be 
civil to a fellow, Joanna. Are you going home ? Let 
me go with you.” 

She stands silent. George Blake is in love with 
her — she is amazed, but not in the least flattered by 
the fact. Plain Sleaford’s Joanna, as she is, she has 
some nameless fascination for him. He has been in 
the habit of going to the Sleafords’ for years without 
being in the least smitten by either of the fair Misses 
Sleaford. Suddenly, without knowing why or where- 
fore, he is possessed of a passion for this girl, Joanna, 
that holds him as with bonds and fetters. His mother 
would not approve ; Joanna snubs him uiznercifully — 
all the same, his infatuation deepens with every day. 

“ Are you coming ?” young Blake asks ; “or arc 
yoa going back to the house P* 


IN WHICH JOANNA ENTERS BOOIETT. 153 

She glances orer her shoulder once more at thos# 
lighted windows, with a frown. 

“ I will go home. Oh, yes, you may come. Hiey 
will not miss me — they are too well engaged.” 

“ I suppose all the cream of the cream are there ?” 
he says, gayly drawing her arm through his, quite 
happy for the time — “the Van Rensselaers, the Vent- 
nors, and the rest. Livingston is there, of course 

“ Of course,” she says, shortly. 

“ And devoted to the lovely princess ? Ah, what a 
match he will make ! — beauty, riches, everything — must 
have been born with a diamond spoon in his mouth — 
that fellow.” 

She does not reply. She shivers, and draws her 
shawl with impatience about her. 

“ How cold it is !” she says, almost angrily. “ Do 
not talk. Let us hurry. It is nearly two o’clock.” 

But George does talk, gayly and fluently. He 
talks so much that he is unconscious she listens in 
silence. They reach the farm, wrapped in quiet and 
darkness, without meeting a soul. All are in bed, but 
Joanna has a key. 

“Good-night,” she says, “and don’t be so foolish 
waiting for me another time. What would your 
mother say ?” 

He laughs. 

“ My mother thinks I am virtuously asleep in New 
York. We do not tell our mothers everything. It 
would not be good for ’em. Good-night, Joanna.” 

He goes off, whistling, through the white, still, 
frozen night Joanna gets in, and reaches her room, 
but she does not go to bed. She sits there in the 
chill, ghostly moonlight a long time-~so long that the 


154 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 


moon wanes, and sets, and the stars fade out, and tli6 
deep darkness that precedes dawn falls on the earth. 
Far off, at Abbott Wood, the gay birth-night party is 
breaking up, and good-byes are being spoken, to the 
merry music of sleigh-bells. But the dark morning 
sky is not darker than the set face of Sleaford^f 
Joanna. 


CHAPTER III. 

IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 

is the afternoon of New Tear’s Day — a 
windy and overcast afternoon. Fast drift- 
ing clouds are blown wildly over a leaden 
sky, “ onding on snaw a gale surges with 
the roar of the sea through the pine woods ; far off, the 
deep diapason of that mighty sea itself blends its 
hoarse roar in the elemental chorus. The marshes lie 
all flat and sodden with recent rain and melted snow. 
It is a desolate picture on which the girl looks who 
leans over the gate at Sleaford’s, and gazes blankly 
before her, with eyes as dreary as the landscape itself. 
She looks flushed and weary, and with reason ; the 
long soughing blast sweeps cool and kindly as a friend’s 
hand over her hot forehead. Her wild hair blows 
about in its usual untidy fashion — her dress is a tern 
and soiled calico wrapper. No “ neat-handed Phillis,^ 
ihis, no spotless dimity household divinity, but simply 
Sleaford’s Joanna resting after the toils of the day. 

The red farm-house behind her lies silent an i som- 
ber, the bark of one of the many dogs, now and 'ihen, 



ITf WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 155 


Alone breaking the silence. The household are away, 
except the master, and he is sleeping off a heavy din- 
ner, washed down by copious draughts ot whisky, in 
Che upper chamber sacred to his use. For is it not 
New Year’s Day, and have not Liz and Lora to receive 
their gentlemen friends ? Neither the weather nor the 
roads being propitious, and Sleaford’s being two or 
three miles out of the way, the young ladies have ac- 
cepted the invitation of a couple of their friends, and 
have gone en grande tenue to Brightbrook to receive. 
Dan and Jud, in their Sabbath best, are “ calling.” 
Giles, Joanna, and the dogs are keeping house. 

It has been no holiday for the girl ; she has nevei 
had a holiday in her life. There has been a dinner 
party at the farm-house, and she has been cook. The 
office has been no sinecure — there has been a goose 
stuffed with sage and onions, a large, vulgar, savory 
bird, to roast — a turkey, with dressing, to boil, a plum 
pudding ditto, sundry vegetables, and stewed fruits, to 
go with these dainties. Yesterday a huge beefsteak 
And kidney pasty was concocted, and a ham boiled. To 
these viands a select company of six young ladies and 
gentlemen, exclusive of the family, have turned their 
hungry attention. The Miss Sleafords, in brand-new 
silk suits, have gone to meeting in Brightbrook, and 
brought their friends back with them. Joanna has 
cooked, but has refused to wait at table. 

" There is your dinner ; wait on yourselves, or go 
withoiit,” she has said, briefly, and they have waited 
on themselves without much grumbling for everything 
has been done to a charm. Now they are gone again ; 
she has washed the dishes and “ redd up,” and, tired 
dughed, heavy-hearted, she stands leaning over the 


166 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX 


fence, looking with those great black, melancholy eyei 
of hers, at that low-lying, fast-drifting sky 

Bat it is neither the weariness of labor, the dreari- 
ness of utter solitude, the loss of a holiday that all 
the rest of the world is enjoying, that weighs her down. 
To all these things she is inured ; custom has blunted 
their edge, she hardly feels their pain. It is something 
else, something belonging to that other life that is not 
connected with Sleaford’s — that other life that seems 
to belong to another world. 

The changes that have occurred since the Christmas 
birthnight party are these. The Ventnors hare re- 
turned to town, their visitors with them. Before going 
they had given a party, to which Joanna was bidden, 
in kindliest, gentlest words, by kindly, gentle Mrs. 
Ventnor. The girl had gone, of course ; it was not 
optional with her to decline. She is asked to sing, and 
goes for that purpose. The Abbotts are there, all 
who were at Abbott’s Wood the other night, and many 
more. Once more Olga, in palest rose silk, looks lovely 
as a dream ; everything she wears seems to become 
her more than the last. Once more very young men 
flock around her as butterflies round a rosebud ; and 
at this party something has occurred that has stung 
this poor, sensitive, morbid Joanna to the very heart. 
Only Mrs. Abbott, and one other, have power enough 
over that heart to sting it to its core — it is that other 
who unwittingly has done it. 

Joanna has been singing. Some passionate pain at 
her heart makes the song — a despairing love song — 
ring out with an intensity of power that thrills all who 
listen. Mrs. Van Rensselaer, the greatest of all great 
ladiet, has taken the girl’s hand in her grand duchesa 


IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 157 

manner, and said some overpoweringly condescending 
things. It is one of Joanna’s innumeralle faults that 
she hates patronage, and all who patronize. Instead 
of being overwhelmed by the gracious kindness of 
Mrs. Van Rensselaer, who has patronized the greatest 
artists in her time, Joanna frees her hand, and cuts the 
lady brusquely and decidedly short. She turns hei 
back deliberately upon her — her — Mrs. Van Rensse- 
laer ! — and moves away. The lady stands petrified. 
The expression of her rigid amazement and dismay, 
her stony stare, are too much for Frank Livingston, who 
witnesses the performance. He retreats into a window 
recess to laugh. There he encounters Geoffrey Lamar, 
who, with knitted brows, has also beheld this little 
•cene. 

‘‘ By Jove !” Frank cries, throwing back his head, 
and laughing explosively, it is the most delicious 
joke ! the great Mrs. Van Rensselaer snubbed — snub- 
Led by Sleaford’s Joanna ! Behold the glare of that 
Medusa face ! On my word, I believe she will have a 
fit !” 

“Mrs. Van Rensselaer deserves it !” Geoffrey says, 
flushing with anger. “ Why cannot they let the girl 
alone ? God has given her an exquisite voice, and such 
women as that think to uplift her by their patronizing 
praise. She has served Mrs. Van Rensselaer right !” 

“ Bravo, Geoff ! Set lance in rest, and ride forth 
in defense of your proteg6. Do you know what it re- 
minds me of? — that old story of James the First, the 
baronet-making king, and his nusse. The old lady 
asks him, you know, to make her son a gentleman. 
‘I’ll mak your son a baronet, if ye like. Lucky,’ sayi 
th« king, ’ but the deevil him eel’ wadna mak him a 


158 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 


gentleman.’ The cases are similar. You may make 
Sleaford’s Joanna a singer if you like, Lamar, but — 
your naother herself cannot make her a gentlewoman.” 

He goes off laughing. A figure, standing motion 
less, hidden by a flower- wreathed pillar, has heard 
every word. And the white marble of the pillar is 
not whiter than her face. Livingston is quoting Shake- 
speare over his shoulder as he goes : 

“Oh, when she’s angry she is keen and shrewd; 

She was a vixen when she went to school, 

And though she is but little, she is fierce I” 

An hour after he comes up to her, as she stands a 
little apart, after singing again — a sweet little Scotch 
ballad, that has touched even him. 

“I foresee we are all going to be proud of our 
Brightbrook nightingale,” he says, gayly. “ When 
your biography is written, we will recall — and put on 
airs in consequence — that we knew and heard you first. 
By-the-bye, the honor of discovery lies with Lamar. 
How was it, I wonder, that I, knowing you so long 
before him, never found you out, or thought what a 
singing bird you were ?” 

She looks at him. To this day he does not under- 
stand, perhaps, the fiery wrath and scorn of her eyes. 
“ Tow/” she says, and he winces and stares at h^r 
tone. “You I Why, you never thought of any one 
but yourself in all your life !” 

“Upon my word,” says Mr. Livingston, when he 
recovers a little, “ here is a facer ! First she floors 
Mrs. Van Rensselaer — now me. What have I done, I 
wonder? I haven’t been patronizing, have I, Olga?” 

Miia Yentnor’s beautiful, short upper lip curls. 


IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 169 


“ She is never very civil, but to-night she is really 
quite too horrid. Mrs. Van Rensselaer is '^ery angry.” 
Then she remembers Joanna is her mother’s guest, and 
stops. “ I suppose it is to be expected, poor creatune ; 
the better way is to say nothing to her at all. This 
waltz is yours, I think, Frank, if you wish to claim it.” 

If he wishes? Frank’s blue, speaking eyes answer 
the question, but Olga only laughs. 

“Keep your sentimental looks for Rosa Brevoort, 
sir,” she says, tosskig back her sunshiny tresses ; “ she 
believes in them — I do not. No, nor your pretty 
speeches, either — so don’t go quoting Tennyson at me 1 
Young men who quote poetry and look as you do at 
every girl you dance with, ought to be bowstrung, or 
out in the pillory.” 

Miss Olga speaks with some irritation. She means 
vhat she says. She laughs at Livingston’s love-mak- 
ing ; she derides his tender glances ; she declines being 
flirted with, but for some cause it annoys her. Perhaps 
tthe does not choose to make one in the long litany of 
Frank’s flirtees. Of that family compact, settled five 
fears ago, she has not heard a word. 

And this being New Year’s Day, as she stands here 
alone, and untidy, at the gate, Joanna is thinking of 
all this. Every day of her life she chafes more and 
more ; either existence, perhaps, she could stand, but 
both are killing her. 

“ Why have I ever known these people ?” her soul 
cries oat in its bitterness. “ Better, oh ! a thousand 
times better to drudge in Sleaford’s kitchen, to cook 
dinners, and wash pots and pans, and know no higher, 
fairer life, I might live as an animal does then — eat, 
and sleep, and never think But to know them, to see 


160 XN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 

theii life, to mingle with it, to be among them, hnt 
never of them — I cannot endure it much longer. It 
will either end in my killing myself or running away 

As she speaks, and she speaks aloud — much solitude 
hjis taught her the habit — a man comes up the slushy 
road, and stands near her, unseen. 

“ Kill myself,” she repeats, in a low, tense tone, 
“ and why not ? It is the shortest solution to the diffi- 
culty. Perhaps even he would care then ! But no,” 
contemptuously, “ he would say, ‘ By Jove, you know 
- — poor Joanna !’ and waltz with Olga ten minutes 
after. Still, I swear, I have half a mind to go down 
to Black’s Dam and do it !” 

At this moment she is handsome ; her sallow cheeks 
flushed, her black eyes shining with unholy fire. She 
strikes her clenched hand, in her desperate mood, on 
the bar, so as to bring blood. The strange fascination 
that has held George Blake from the first, sweeps over 
him like a resistless torrent now. He leans forward, 
his face flushing darkly red. 

“ Don’t drown yourself, Joanna,” he says ; ‘‘ do bet- 
ter. Marry me !” 

She looks at him. She has not heard him ; he hag 
overheard her, but he does not discompose her in the 
least- She looks at him a full minute without speak 
tng. It is one of the traits of Joanna’s curious char 
actcr, that she can stare any man or woman alive Out 
of countenance, without winking once. 

Do better ?” she repeats. “ Would that be doing 
better?” Her eyes never leave his face. “Are you 
rwih ?” she demands. 

“ No, poor — poor as a church mouse ; a pennilesg 


m WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 161 


beggar of a paragraphist. But it would be better 
than Black’s Dam.” 

“ Would it ?” she says again. “ I am not so sure of 
that. Black’s Dam would end everything — going with 
jou would not. It would be only exchanging one sort 
of hardship for another. And I don’t want to marry 
— youP"* 

‘‘ I am awfully fond of you, Joanna,” the poor young 
fellow pleads. “I would work for you. We could 
live in New York on my pay. And you would have a 
good time. I get free passes to all the theaters, you 
know, and all the sights, and that. We could board, 
you know. You would not have to work. And you 
would like New York. Do think of it, Joanna.” 

‘‘ New York ?” she repeats, and her great eyes light. 
“Yes, I would like New York. I wUX think of it, 
George Blake.” 

She declines further courtship — does not even ask 
her adorer in, and dismisses him summarily enough. 

“ I wish you would go. I don’t want to talk. I am 
tired to death — oh, so tired ! so tired I” drawing along, 
hard breath. “ I was up nearly all last night. I will 
go in and go to bed.” 

“And you will think of it, Joanna?” 

“ Oh, yes, I will think of it. I would like to go to 
New York. I cannot endure my life here much 
longer.” 

“ And I may come soon again ?” 

“ Come whenever you like,” she says, half irnpa* 
tiently, half indifferently. “I suppose I ought to feel 
pleased, I have so few friends, but I don t. If I ever 
run away with you, you will be sorry for it all the reft 
of your Kfe^” 


162 IN WHICH /OANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 


It is au ominous prediction, and he thinks of it with 
bitterness of spirit in after days. But the glamour i« 
upon him now ; he would not have his eyes open if he 
could. 

“ I will risk it,” he answers, fervently. “ I will risk 
a 11 things, so that you come.” 

3| 4e ♦ )|c 

Three days after this, Mrs. Abbott announces a sec 
ond change. 

“ The week after next,” she says, “ Leo, and my son 
and I are going to New York to spend a month with 
the Ventiiors. The only difference it will make to 
you, Joanna, is that you will go to Miss Rice’s cottage 
for your daily lessons, instead of coming here.” 

Joanna listens almost apathetically. Yes, the only 
difference. And yet she is conscious of a pang in lis- 
tening to the lady’s calmly-kind words. She loves 
Mrs. Abbott, and she loves so few — so few. 

She goes home that evening, home to Sleaford’s, and 
no prescience tells her it is for the last time — the very 
last time, forever. She has no intention of running 
away with George Blake ; she thinks as little of him 
as of the dry twigs that snap under her feet. 

She feels wearied and aimless — the feeling is grow- 
ing upon her day by day. She saunters listlessly along, 
after a fashion very unlike her naturally swift, strong, 
springy walk. 

What is the use of fealing sorry Mis. Abbott is 
going away ? What is the use of feeling sorry for 
anything — loving anything ? It is only added pain. 

It is a perfect January evening — cold, sparklingjr 
clear. There is snow on the ground, white and unde- 
fil^ here in this woodland path — feathery snow oo 


IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 163 


the black, bare boughs. A brilliant sky is above, pale 
blue, rich with sunset tints, pearl, ruby, orange, opal^ 
paling slowly to silvery gray. There is no wind. It 
is a sparkling January gem, set in hazy mist. She 
reaches the house, takes one last wistful look at all 
that loveliness of sky and earth, and goes in. The 
family are assembled, all but old Giles. They are dis- 
cussing some matter with considerable eagerness. 

“ She won’t do it,” Liz is remarking ; “ not if you 
offered her as much again. She has got all sorts of 
Btuck-up notions since these people have took her in 
hand. She won’t go a step ; you’ll see.” 

“ I will see !” growls Dan Sleaford ; “ and what is 
more, I will make her feel if she refuses. Set a beg 
gar on horseback, indeed ! The old man ought to 
knowed better than ever let her go.” 

“ If she hadn’t gone, neither you nor Watjen would 
want her now,” remarks Jud. 

“ Hush !” says Lora ; “ here she is !” and the con- 
versation immediately stops. 

She glanced at them carelessly, and throws off her 
jacket and hat. There is always plenty for her to do 
when she gets home ; but, for a wonder, neither of the 
girls issue orders now. There is a pause — Dan breaks it. 

“Look here, Jo,” he begins, in a wheedling tone, 
“ I’ve got some good news for you. Here’s a chance 
for you to turn an honest penny at last. You’d like 
to earn some pocket-money, wouldn’t you ?” 

She looks at him distrustfully, and does not answer. 
Rough Dan Sleaford, in this lamb-like mood, is a little 
more to be suspected than in his natural state. He is 
a younger copy of his father- -coarseness, cruelty, 
drunkenness included. 


164 IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS IHE CLIMAX. 

“You know Watjen’s? You’ve heard of Wat- 
jen’s ?” he says, in the same insinuating tone , “ him 
as keeps the lager-bier garden and concert hall up the 
village? He’s lately come from New York, you know, 
and does as they do it there.” 

Yes, she has heard of Watjen’s — a low drinking 
place, where the roughs of Brightbrook most do con- 
gregate, and where the lowest of both sexes perform 
for the amusement of the smokers, and drinkers, and 
bummers of the place. St e nods shortly. 

“Well — he’s an out-and-out good fellow is Watjen, 
and he’s heerd of your singin’ — how you can tip ’em 
French and Dutch songs as easy as wink, and play th4 
pianny like everything. Well — (mind you, the best 
singers of New York come and sing for him ; the 
highest-toned sort o’ ladies !) — Watjen wants to en 
gage you. He’ll give you one-fifty a night, and I’l 
drive you over and back every evenin’. There !” 

Dan closes this brilliant offer with a flourish. T( 
do Herr Watjen justice, he has offered double tha 
amount for each night, with the promise of an increase 
should Joanna find favor in the eyes of his patrons 
But Dan judges it is not well to dazzle her with th 
whole splendid truth. Joanna sits mute as a fish. 

“Well!” he cries, “don’t ye hear! One-fifty 
flight to do what you darn please with I D’ye hear T 

“ I hear.” 

“ Why don’t ye answer, then ?” Dan’s voice and 
temper are rising. The girls exchange aggravating 
I-told-you-so smiles. “ I want an answer. Is it yes oi 

no?” 

“ It is no.” 

^16 says it so composedly, that lot a moment hv 


IN WHICH JOANNA CAPS THE CLIMAX. 165 


ijannot take in the full fo/ce of the refusal. He give# 
a gasp, and sits with his mouth open. 

Wha-a-a>t !” 

’I say no. I wouldn’t sing in Watjen’s beer gar- 
den for a thousand dollars a night — for ten thousand 
dollars a night I I wouldn’t set foot in it to save his 
life and yours !” 

Inhere is no mistaking this time. Her voice rings 
with scorn, and she turns to leave the kitchen. Dap 
Sleaford leaps to his feet like a tiger, and seizes her 
by the arm. 

“ Say that again, d you !” he cries, hoarse witk 

passion — “ say it again !” 

She looks at him unflinchingly, her eyes flashinf 
fire — literally flashing fire. 

“ I wouldn’t go to save your neck from the gal- 
lows,” she says, between her teeth, “ where it is due !” 

He waits for no more. The array of horsewhips 
from which Giles was wont to select for her benefit is 
still there. He seizes one, blind with fury and drink 
there is a sharp hissing through the air, and it de- 
scends. It rises and falls again, quick as light. Then, 
with a scream of passion, pain, rage, that those who 
hear never forget, she turns upon him. In that mo- 
ment a mad power possesses her — she is stronger tha« 
he. She wrenches the whip out of his grasp, lifts it — 
the butt-end this time — and brings it down with all 
the force of fury across his head. It lays it open — the 
whip has a heavy handle ; a rain of blood pours over 
his eyes, and blinds him. He relaxes his hold, stag- 
gers backward blindly, and falls. There is a simul- 
taneous shriek and rush, Joanna flings the whip into 
the midst of them, and flies. 


IK WHICH JOANKA RUNS AWAY. 


She is beside herself — she knows not what she ha* 
done, or whither she is going. She rushes on like a 
mad thing, heedless of all obstacles, and falls prostraU 
at last on the edge of Black’s Dam. As a hunted 
animal flies instinctively to its lair, so her feet have 
carried her here, and heie she falls, panting, spent, for 
the time being perfectly insane. Jud Sleaford has 
often predicted that she will murder some of them, 
and Jud’s prediction seems to have come true at last. 


CHAPTER IV. 

IK WHICH JOAKKA RUK8 AWAY. 

OW long she lies she cannot tell. A panic of 
horror and despair at herself and the deed 
she has done. Alls her. Has she murdered 
him? She has threatened often enough 
to kill some of them in her ungovernable bursts of 
temper, if they will not let her alone. Has she 
done it at last ? It is not sorrow that stirs her, nor 
fear ; it is a panic of darkest despair and misery such 
as in all her miserable life she has never felt before, 
She crouches there in the snow, feeling no cold, numb 
soul and body. A hurried step crunches over the 
frozen ground. There is an exclamatirn ; a hand 
touches her shoulder, and strives to lift her head. 

“ Joanna !” a breathless voice says ; “ Joanna, what 
is this?” 

It is a friendly voice. She lifts her stricken, despair- 
ing eyes to a friendly face. Tl.e sight breaks the tor* 



IN WHICH JOANNA BUNS AWAY. 167 


por of agony ; she springs to her feet, and flings her 
arms about his neck. 

“ George Blake !” she cries, with a chokii.g sob. 

George Blake ! George Blake !” 

The young fellow holds her to him — pity, terror, 
blank consternation in his face. 

“Joanna, what is all this? What have you been 
doing ? What has that — that brute been doing to 
you ? Do you know they say that you ” — he chokes 
over the words — “that you have killed him?” 

She gives a gasp, and still clings hold of him. The 
whole world seems slipping away ; she seems to stand 
in the wide universe alone in her desolation, with only 
this single friend. 

“I have been to the house,” he goes on ; “all is 
confusion there. Jud has gone for a doctor. There 
is blood on the floor, and on the whip-handle they say 
you struck him with. He is lying, bleeding still, and 
stunned, on the settee in the kitchen. The girls say 
you have killed him. Oh ! Joanna, speak, and tell me 
what it is !” 

She tries to do so. Her words are broken and in- 
coherent, but he manages to get at the story — the 
provocation, the attack, the reprisal. His eyes flash 
with honest indignation. 

“ The brute ! the cowardly scoundrel ! You served 
him right, Joanna — you acted in self-defense. Even 
if he is killed, which I don’t believe, you have served 
him right. But he will not die. A beast like that 
stands a great deal of killing. Don’t shake so, my 
dear ; don’t wear that haggard face -it will be all 
right. I tell you it is only what you ought to have 
done long ago. The black, sullen dog ! to take hit 


168 IN WHICH JOANNA KUN8 A. WAT. 


horsewhip to you I” He grinds his teeth. “ 1 hope h« 
will bear the mark of your blow to his dying day !” 

She slips out of his arms, and sits down on a fallen 
log, her hands clasping her knees, after her old fash- 
ion, that miserable, hunted look never leaving her eyes. 

“ I knew you would come here,” the young man 
goes on, seating himself beside her ; it is always your 
sanctuary in troubled times, my poor Joanna. Oh, my 
dear, my dear ! my poor, ill-used, suffering girl ! if I 
could only take your place, and endure all this for 
you !” 

She holds out her hand to him silently. He is so 
good, so leal, her one loyal friend and knight. Great 
slow tears well up, and soften the blank anguish of 
her hopeless eyes. 

“ I will tell you what I will do,” he says, after a 
pause. “I feel sure the fellow will not die — these 
venomous reptiles are so tenacious of life — still, we both 
feel anxious. If you will wait here, I will go back to 
the house and find out. I will return and tell you the 
truth — the worst certainty is better than suspense. 
Only promise me” — he clasps the cold hand he holds 
hard — “ you will not do anything — anything rash while 
I am gone.” 

He looks toward the pond, lying dark and stagnant 
under the evening sky; then his troubled eyes seek her 
face. 

‘‘ Promise me, Joanna,” he says, “ you will stay here 
until I return.” 

“ I promise,” she says, and be knows she will keep 
her word. 

He rises instantly, and without a moment^s delay 
•tarts olf on his mission. 


US WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 169 


She keeps her word to the letter. She sits as he 
has left her, never even stirring until he returns. The 
last opal-tinted gleam of sunset dies away, the frosty 
January stars come thickly out, the night wind rises 
bleakly, the frogs croak dismally down in the fetid 
depths of their slimy pools. She does not stir; apathy 
succeeds agony; she hardly feels ; she is benumbed, 
stupefied — she neither cares nor fears longer. 

Presently, but it is a long time, too, the footsteps 
crunch once more over the frozen snow, and George 
Blake comes rapidly forward. One look at his face 
tells his news — it is bright, eager, smiling ; his step is 
alert and buoyant. 

“All right, Joanna,” he calls, gayly. “It is as 1 
said; the fellow is going to live to grace the gallows 
yet. It is an ugly gash, and has let him a lot of blood 
—as much as if he were a bullock — but it is bandaged 
up now, and he’s asleep. I heard the doctor tell him,” 
says George, laughing, “ it was the best thing could 
have happened to him; it had probably saved him a 
fit of apoplexy, and that he ought to keep you as a sort 
of family leech, to break his head at intervals. ‘ It is 
very bad blood,’ says the doctor, ‘ and you’re the bet- 
ter for losing a gallon or two of it.’ ” 

George’s laugh rings out boyishly; the relief is so 
unutterable. 

But she does not look glad, she does not speak, she 
does not smile. She sits quite still, looking straight 
Oefore her, at the pale, snow-lit, star-lit landscape. 

His face, too, grows grave as he regards her. 

“And now, Jo,” he says, resuming his seat beside 
her, “ what next ?” 
i 


170 IN WHICH JOANNA SX3N8 A WAT. 


He has to repeat the question before she seems t« 
hear, then the blank gaze turns to his face. 

“You cannot go back there,” he says, and he sees 
her shrink and shudder at the thought. “You cannot 
stay here. Then what are you to do ? ” 

She makes no reply. 

In all the wide world, he wonders, as he watches 
her, is there another creature so forlorn, so homeless as 
this ? 

“Perhaps you will go to Abbott Wood ?” he sug- 
gests. And at that she finds her voice, and breaks out 
with a great despairing cry. 

“ Oh, no, no, no ! Never there ! Never there any 
more ! Oh, what will Mrs. Abbott say ? Oh me ! 
oh me ! oh me ! ” 

He sits in silent distress. Great sobs tear and rend 
their way up from her heart. She weeps wildly aloud. 
He has never seen Joanna cry before — few ever have 
— and the tortured sobs shake him through and 
through. 

“Don’t, Joanna !” he says. “Oh, do not ! I can- 
not bear to hear you. Don’t cry like that !” 

As well ask the tide not to flow. Repressed nature 
will have its revenge ; she must weep or die. She 
sobs on and on, until the paroxysm spends itself, and 
she stops from sheer exhaustion. A jealous pang 
wrings George Blake’s heart — how she loves this Mrs. 
Abbott ! But still the question is unanswered — what 
is to be done — and the night wears on. George’s watch 
points to ten. He holds it out to her in silent appeal. 

“ Wait,” she says. “ Let me think. Let me think !” 

The hysterics have done her good ; her apathy it 
■wept away ; she is fully aroused to a sense of her 


HI WHICH /OAITNA ETJH8 AW AT. 171 


situation — to the importanco of that question -what 

neKt ? 

She sits and thinks. Impossible to return to Slea- 
ford’s — horror fills her at the thought. More impos- 
sible still to go to Abbott Wood after this terrible 
deed. Besides, even if she could, even if Mrs. Abbott 
would consent to overlook her almost being a murder- 
ess, Giles Sleaford would never let her stay. She 
would be brought back to the farm by force — then, 
what is to be done ? 

She looks up at last ; her black eyes turn to the 
face of her companion, and fix there in such a long, 
searching stare that he is disconcerted. 

“What is it, Joanna?” he asks. “You know 
there is nothing in all the world I would not do for 
you.” 

Nothing V'‘ she tersely repeats. 

“ Nothing that man can do.” 

“ You asked me the other day to marry you. Will 
you marry me now /” * 

“Will I?” his face lights up with quick jo^ — he 
catches both her hands ; “ wiU I ? Oh, Joanna I’^ 

“Will you take me to New York to-night, and 
marry me to-morrow ?” 

“ Sharp work !” he says, “ but even that may be ac- 
complished. I will take you to New York, and I will 
marry you ! Joanna ! Joanna ! how happy you have 
made me !” 

“ I !” she says, mournfully, “ I make any one happy ! 
Oh I George Blake, you will hate me one day for this ! 
I ought not to ask it — I am a wretch — almost a mur- 
deress — not fit to be any good man’s wife And you 
are good. Oh ! I ought not ! I ought not !” 


172 nsr which joanha runs 


Yon ought — you must I” he exclaims, alarmed 
“ What nonsense you are talking, J o ! Murderess, 
indeed ! The pity is you did not give the cur twice as 
much. Ah 1 what care I will take of you, Joanna, 
how happy I will make you. You will forget this 
wretched life and these miserable people. You shall 
have my whole heart and life.” 

“ And your mother,” she says, in the same mourn- 
ful voice, “ what will she say ? And your aunt — good 
Miss Rice ? Oh ! you foolish fellow ! Take me t<3 
New York, but do not marry me. Let me earn my 
own living — I am young, and strong, and willing, and 
used to hard work. I will be a kitchen-maid — any- 
thing. No life can be so hard, so sordid, as the life I 
lead here.” 

“I will marry you,” he says, “I refuse to release 
fou. You said you would be my wife and you must 
— I cannot live without you. Oh ! Joanna,” the young 
fellow cries out in a burst of passion, “ you torture me 1 
Cannot you see that I love you ? ” 

She shakes her head. 

“ No,” she says, “ I cannot see it, nor understand it. 
What is there in me — plain, red-haired, ill-tempered 
Joanna, to love ? And I do not care for yow.” 

“ That will come in time. I will be so good to you, 
fo fond of you, you will not be able to help it. Say no 
more about it, Joanna. I c^aim you and will have 
you.” 

“Very well, she answers resignedly; “remember, 
whatever comes, I have warned you. Now settle all 
the rest yourself. I trust you — I am in your hards.” 

“And I will be true to youi: trust,” he says, fer 
vently, “ so help me Heaver J ^ 


AST WHICH .^OAKNA KUNS AWAY. 17^5 


He lifts one of her hands, the red, work-hirdened 
hands, to his lips. And then for a little they sit in 
silence. 

It is a strange betrothal — the hour of night, the 
gloomy scene, white snow, blick woods, dead silence, 
starry sky, and Black’s Dam, evil and ominous, at their 
feet. All George Blake’s life long that picture stands 
out, distinct from all others, in his memory — he and 
this strange girl who fascinates him, sitting there, the 
only creatures, it seems, left in all the world ! 

“ Let me see,” he says, returning to the practical, 
“ there is no up-train to the city before five o’clock. 
That is the one I generally go by, when I spend a 
night in Brightbrook. It is now past eleven : how are 
we to get through the intervening hours ? You wilJ 
perish if we stay here.” 

“ And I must have something to wear,” says Joan 
na, glancing at her dress. It is the grimy, well-worn 
old alpaca. “ Let me see. They are not likely to sit 
up to-night with him, are they ? ” 

“ Not in the least likely, I should say. He is al) 
right ; was snoring like a grampus when I left. Why ? ” 

“ I must get into the house, and get something to 
wear. I cannot go to New York like this.” 

He see that she cannot, but still he looks anxious 
and doubtful. 

“ It is a risk,” he says. 

‘‘ Not at all, if they do not sit up. I can always 
get in, and once in bed I am not afraid of th<it family. 
They sleep as if for a wager. It is a risk I must run. 
I must have a better dress, a shawl and hat. And 1 
can wait indoors until it is tii)ie to start for the stir 
lion.” 


174 IN WHICH JOANNA BUNS AWAT. 


‘‘An hour will take us,” Blake says. ‘ Come theik, 
Joanna, let us be up and doing. I shah get into a 
fever waiting, if we stay here.” 

They go — starting on the first stage of tl at journey 
that is to lead — who can tell where ? 

It is nearly midnight when they reach the Red 
Farm. No sign of recent tragedy is there — quiet slum- 
ber evidently reigns. It is better even than they had 
dared to hope. 

“ Where will you wait ?” the girl asks. “ It will 
be cold for you.” 

“ I will walk about,” he answers. “ The night is 
mild, and my overcoat is proof against frost-bite. 
Only do not be caught, Joanna, or change your mind, 
or fall asleep. I will never forgive you if you tail me 
now !” 

“ I will not fail,” she says, firmly. “ Before four I 
will be with you again.” 

She leaves him, and admits herself after her old 
fashion — bolts and bars are few and far between at 
Sleaford’s. All is still. She takes off her shoes and 
creeps up stairs and listens. 

All still. 

Now the question arises, what shall she wear ? She 
does not want to disgrace George Blake. Nearly all 
the things Mrs. Abbott has given her are in her room 
at Abbott Wood — Liz and Lora immediately confis- 
cating to their use anything attractive she brings to 
the farm. She has absolutely nothing of her own fi^ 
to put on. No — but the other girls have ! Joanna 
has not the slightest scruple in the matter. They take 
everything of hers ; it is a poor rule that will not work 
both ways. She will help herself from Lora’s ward- 


IN WHtOH JJANNA RUNS AWAY. 175 

robe ! They are of the same height. Lora is a fine 
girl,” and stout enough to make two of such a slip as 
Joanna, but fit does not signify. She softly opens the 
wardrobe, and begins operations. It is a small closet 
adjoining their bedroom, and dark as a pocket ; but 
she has brought a candle-end with her from the kitchen. 
She lights it now and sets to work. 

As well take the best when she is about it ! There 
hangs the new black silk suit, gotten up expressly for 
New Year’s Day, and worn on that occasion only. She 
takes it down from its peg. Here is Lora’s Sunday 
hat, a black velvet beauty, with crimson roses and 
snowy plume. To twist out this latter appendage is 
the work of a second — the red roses for the present 
must stand. Now she wants a wrap. Here is a cloth 
jacket, handsomely trimmed ; she unhooks it. Then, 
as she is moving away, a last article catches her eye. 
It is a crimson wool shawl, a rich and glowing wrap, 
and the pride of Liz’s soul. 

Some faint spirit of diablerie^ more than actual 
need, makes her add this to the heap. She returns to 
the kitchen, her arms filled with her spoils. She has 
already secured one or two little gifts of Mrs. Abbott’s 
and Leo’s. A gold breastpin, a pearl and ruby ring, 
and her very last New Year’s gift — a little gold watch 
and chain — the watch Mrs. Abbott’s present, the chain 
Geoffrey’s, the ring Leo’s. And now in the warm 
kitchen she arrays herself deliberately in pilfered 
plumes, with a sort of wicked zest in the tremendoui 
uproar there will be to-morrow. Dan’s mishap will be 
nothing to this — Liz and Lora will go straight out of 
their senses. 

“It is not stealing,” the giri says to herself. “I 


17^ Uf WHICH JCANNA RUNS AWAY. 


Lave worked for them all my life ; I Lave earned these 
things ten times over. And they have taken lots of 
mine — Mrs. Abbott’s gifts. I have a right to take 
what I want.” 

Whether or no, they are taken, and will be kept. 
Once dressed she seats herself, and waits impatiently 
for the clock to strike four. She is eager to be off, to 
turn her back forever upon this hated house, these 
hated people— to begin the world anew. A new life is 
dawning for her ; whatever it brings it can bring 
nothing half so bad as the life she is leaving. New 
York ! the thought of that great city and its possibili- 
ties dazzles her. Of George Blake she thinks little 
He is, perforce, part of that new life, but she would 
rather he were not. She does not care for him ; he 
tries her with his boyish fondness and insipid love- 
making. Still, she cannot do without him — so Mrs. 
George Blake, willy nilly, it seems she must be. 

One, two, three, four I from the old wooden Con- 
necticut clock. She draws a long breath of relief, 
rises, makes her way out, as she made it in. 

The night has changed — the morning is dark, 
damp, dismal. George Blake is waiting, poor faithful 
sentinel. He comes up, his teeth chattering, white 
rime on mustache and hair. 

“ At last,” he says, wearily ; “ give you my honor, 
Joanna, I thought the time would never come. What 
a night this has been 1 Shall you ever forget it ?” 

She does not speak ; she looks back darkly at the 
house she is leaving. 

Good-by, you dreary prison,” she says. “ I may be 
miserable in the time that is to come, but I can nevei 
again be as miserable as I have been in you.” 


IK WHICH JOAKKA RCNS AWAY. 177 


“You shall never be miserable.. Can you not trust 
me, Joanna?” he says, reproachfully. 

“ Come !” is her only answer. He draws her hand 
through his arm, and they are off, walking fleetly, and 
in silence, along the bleak, windy road. 

It wants a quarter of five when they reach the sta- 
tion. It is quite deserted, but there is a fire in the 
waiting-room. 

He takes her in, and sees for the first time the silk- 
en robe, the velvet hat, the crimson shawl. 

“ My word, Joanna !” he says, laughing, “ how smart 
you are ! As a bridegroom cometh out of his cham- 
^ ber ! Where did you raise all this superfine tog 
gery ?” 

“It belongs to Lora,” answers Joanna, in the most 
matter-of-fact tone possible, “ all but the shawl — that 
belongs to Liz ! The watch and brooch are my own 
I did not want to shame you by being shabby.” 

He stares at her, then bursts out laughing ; but he 
is not best pleased, either, at these vague notions of 
meum and tuum. There is no time, however, to re- 
monstrate ; the train rushes in almost immediately, 
and the instant it stops the runaways are aboard. 

“Now then !” George Blake exclaims, “we are off 
at last ; let those catch who can ! In three hours we 
will be in New York.” 

It is a silent trip. The young fellow sits lost in a 
happy dream. He will marry Joanna. They wib 
board in the city for a little, then his mother will 
“ come round,” and his wife can live with hcfr, while 
he will run down three or four times a week. By and 
by his salary will be raised, he will become an editor 
himself, he will take a nice little house over Brooklyi 

r 


178 IN WHICH JOANNA BUNS AWAT 


way, with a garden, a grape arbor, Bome rose trees and 
geraniums, and he and Joanna will live happily forever 
after ! 

That is his dream. For Joanna, what does she 
dream of as she sits beside him, her lips compressed, 
a line as of pain between her eyebrows, her eyes look- 
ing out at the gray, forlorn dawn. Nothing bright, 
certainly, with that face. 

They reach the city. The noise, the uproar, the 
throng, the stony streets, bewilder her — she clings to 
ler protector’s arm. He has decided to take her for 
to-day to a hotel, and not present her to his landlady — 
an austere lad}^ — until he can present her as his lawful 
wedded wife. So he calls a “ keb,” and they are driven 
off to an up-town Broadway hotel. 

Is it always as noisy as this ?” she asks, in a sort 
of panic. My head is splitting already.” 

“ Ob, you will get used to it,” he laughs ; “ we all 
do You won’t even hear it after awhile — T don’t. 
Here we are. Now you shall have breakfast, and then 
I will start ofp, and hunt up a clergyman.” 

He squeezes her hand, but there is no response. 
She withdraws it impatiently, and goes with him into 
one of the parlors, where George engages a room for 
his wife, and registers boldly as “ Mr. and Mrs. George 
P. Blake.” Mrs. Blake is shown to her apartment, 
where she washes her face, smooths her hair, straight- 
ens herself generally, and then goes down with Mr. 
Blake, to breakfast. 

•‘Now, Jo,” he says, when that repast is over, “you 
will return to your room, and I will go out and get 
you something to read, to pass the time, for I may b« 
gone some hours. I will fetch a parson with me if I 


m WHICH JOANNA BUNS AWAT. 179 


can , if not, we will go this evening before a clergy- 
inan, and be married. Try not to feel lonesome. In a 
few hours you will be my wife !” 

Joanna does not look as if there were anything m 
this prospect of a particularly rapturous nature, but 
she goes to her room, and later accepts the magazines 
he brings her, to while away the hours of his absence. 
But it is a long day. She yawns over the stories and 
pictures for awhile, then throws herself on a sofa, and 
falls asleep. 

It is late in the afternoon when she awakes. 
George is there to take her to dinner, waiting impa- 
tiently. 

‘‘It is all right,” he tells her. “The Reverend 
Peter Wiley is my friend ; I have explained to him as 
much as is necessary, and we are to go to his house at 
nine this evening. I shall want some one to stand up 
with me, so after dinner I’ll run down to the office, if 
you don’t mind being alone a little longer, and get one 
of our fellows.” 

They dine, and George again departs ; J oanna 
once more returns to her own room. And now it is 
drawing awfully near— this great change in her life — 
she is about to become George Blake’s wife. As she 
sits here alone, her face buried in her hands, her whole 
life seems to rise up before her — her whole dark, love- 
less, most miserable life. A dreadful feeling of sullen, 
silent anger possesses her as she sits alone here, her 
hands clasped around her knees, her eyes staring 
straight before her, after her usual crouching, ungainly 
fashion. All the wrongs of her lifetime rise up before 
her, a dark and gloomy array. Fatherless, motherless, 
what had she done to be sent into the world banned at 


180 IN WHICH JOANNA RUNS AWAY. 


ner vei*y birth ? Hard fare, hard words, hard blows 
oaths, kicks, cuffs, constant toil, half naked, half 
frozen, jeers, scorn, forever and forever ! There it 
stands, the bitter, bad catalogue, never to be forgotten, 
never to be forgiven. A long life-time of reprisal will 
be too short to wash white the score her memory holds 
against almost every human creature she has ever 
known. 

And yet, stay ! Not quite all — not George Blake, 
poor foolish fellow, who has run away with her, or 
rather with whom she has run away. The tense lines 
of brow and mouth relax a little. It is too bad to 
have made him do it ; he will never know what to do 
with her all the rest of his life. He will be sorry for 
it presently — she feels that, although, perhaps, he does 
not just now. But she has not thought of him, only 
of herself ; it has been her one chance of escape from 
that earthly hell, and she has taken it. What is she 
that she should spare any one ! After all, George 
Blake has asked her once, let him “dree his own 
weird,” she will alter no plan of hers out of pity for 
him ; he is useful to her, and when his day comes let 
him 

She stops. A quick footstep passes her door, a 
man’s step, a man’s voice whistles a gay air. Both are 
familiar ; they strike on her heart like a blow. She 
springs up and flies to the door. Down the long pas- 
sage a tall figure goes. A lady passes him ; the whis- 
tle ceases, he uncovers as she goes by ; then he too 
gone. 

Fcr a moment she stands stunned, her race quite 
white, her eyes all wild and wide, in a sort of teiTor, 
her heart beating thick and fast. Then she darts to 


nr WHICH JOANNA BUNS A WAT. 181 


the window, and but just in time. He is passing out 
the last light of the evening sky falling full upon him 
— handsome, as usual, carelessly elegant, as usual — the 
dazzling image that has always appealed so powerfully 
to this wild girl’s imagination — that has made him 
from the first, in her eyes, unlike any other man she 
has ever seen. What is the charm ? He is only a 
weLdooking, well-mannered, well-dressed young gen- 
tleman, the type of a class that in after years she meets 
“thick as leaves in Vallambrosa,” and yet, to the last 
day of her life, something stamps Frank Livingston 
as a “ man of men ” among them all. In one flashing 
glance those quick eyes take in every detail of face, 
and figure, and dress, even to the rosebud and gera- 
nium leaf peeping out from under his dark paletot, the 
white vest, the kid gloves. There is but time for a 
glance. He lights a cigar, beckons a coup6, springs 
in, and is gone. 

She sits down as she has been sitting before, but in 
a dazed sort of fashion that frightens even herself. 
She tries to take up her train of thought where she has 
dropped it — in vain. A swift, incomprehensible revul- 
sion begins within her. She will not marry George 
Blake— -no, no ! never, never ! She springs up again, 
and puts out her hands as if to keep even the idea off. 
She will not marry George BUike — she will die first ! 
How has she ever thought of such a thing ? Why has 
she ever come here ? Why is she staying here now ? 
If she stays he will come back and make her marry 
him. Make hei ! She laughs a scornful little laugh, 
all by herself, at the thought. But then his pleading 
face and wistful boyish blue eyes rise before her. And 
he is so fond of her, so ridiculously fond of hen 


182 m WHICH JOAKNA SEEKS HEE EORTUHB, 


‘‘Pshaw!’’ she says aloud, impatiently, “he ia t 
fool to want me. He will get over it.” 

But she must not stay — it will not do to meet hi»A 
She must have been mad with misery ever to think of 
marrying him — hijn / Alas, for George Blake ! The 
haughty head erects itself, the straight throat curves. 
In one moment her mind is made up, beyond power of 
change. And all by one fleeting glimpse of Frank 
Livingston going to the opera. 

She puts on her hat — ^Lora’s hat — pulls it well down 
over her face, throws the heavy crimson shawl over 
her arm, and is ready to go. She writes no line or 
word of farewell — what is there to say ? And she is 
not romantic. George will see that she has gone — 
that is enough. Where is she going ? She does not 
know — only — not to marry young Mr. Blake. She 
opens the door, walks quickly down the long corridor, 
her head defiantly erect, prepared to do battle with 
George Blake should they meet. But she meets nc 
one. The elevator is just descending ; she enters and 
goes down. A moment later and she is out, under the 
sparkling New Year stars, alone, homeless, penniless, 
in the streets of New York. 


CHAPTER V. 

IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 

HE yellow-tinted twilight has given place to 
silvery dark, lighted by a broad full moon. 
All lamps in the great thoroughfare are 
alight, windows are blazing like great 
jewels. Her spirits rise, the fresh night wind is like 



IN’ WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 183 


Rtrong wine, the old gypsy instinct of freedom awAkes 
within her. It is well ! She is strong, she is freel 
Ob ! blessed freedom, boon beyond all boons of earth ! 
And for one whole day and night sLe has thought of 
resigning it for life-long bondage to George Blake ! 
Free to do what she chooses, go where she likes ; the 
world is all before her, a great city full of infinite 
possibilities is around her ! No man is her mast«i ; 
no man ever shall be ! 

She walks on and on, her blood quickening, hei 
heart rising. She could sing aloud in this first hour 
of her exultation. She is free ! her old life lies behind 
her, with its shame, its pain, forever and ever. She is 
here in the city of her desire, the world all before her 
where to choose ! 

How brilliant the scene is to those country eyes ; 
how the lamps shine, how the great windows flash 
out ! But the roar, the rush of many people and 
venicles dizzies and bewilders her. Will she indeed 
ever get used to it, as George Blake says ? But she 
puts away the thought of George Blake ; a hot, swift 
pang of remorse goes with it. How cruel, how un- 
grateful he will think her, and “ ingratitude is the vice 
of slaves.” She will not think of him ; it is all she can 
do to keep from having a vertigo, amid all ihis light 
and noise. 

Presently she becomes conscious that curious eyes 
are watching her. She does not know it, but she is a 
r.onspicuous object even on Broadway. Her great 
amazed black eyes, the unmistakable country stamp 
aboiU her, something out of the common in her eager 
face, the brilliant shawl, render her a distinct mark in 
the moving picture. 


184 IS WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FOBTUIOB. 


And then all at once she realizes that she is being 
followed, that a man is close at her elbow, has been 
for some time, and is looking down at her with a sinis- 
tCL" leer. He is a big, burly man, with a red face, a 
mangy, parple mustache, all nose and watch-chain, like 
a Jew. She glances up at him a'ngrily ; he only re- 
turns it with a smile of fascinating sweetness. 

You was waitin’ for me, my dear, wasn’t you 
he says, insinuatingly. 

She does not reply, only hurries on, her heait begin- 
ning to beat. A policeman passes and eyes the pair 
suspiciously, but Joanna does not know enough of city 
wavs to appeal to him. She takes these tall men, 
bound in blue and brass, to be soldiers, and is afraid 
of them. She walks rapidly — so rapidly, with that 
free, elastic step she has learned in treading the woods, 
that her pursuer anathematizes her under his breath. 
She has got off Broadway now, and takes corners and 
streets as they come, and still, with a perseverance 
worthy a much better cause, her tormentor follows. 
He has no breath left for conversation. He is stout, 
his wind is gone, he is gasping like a stranded fish ; he 
lags a step or two behind, and a stern chase is always 
a long one. Joanna is as fresh as when she started. 
Suddenly she turns round and faces him, and some- 
thing in her eyes looks so wicked, so dangerous, that 
the fellow stops. The next moment she has flown 
round a corner and disappeared. There is nothing for 
the owner of the mangy mustache but to get on the 
first car and go back. 

She wanders on and on, glancing about her s ispi* 
ciously now, lest the florid gentleman should have suc- 
eeseors, but no one troubles her She wonders where 


IK VHIOH JOANNA SEEKS HER POBTTTKE. 185 


ibe is. Up here the streets are quiet ; long rows of 
handsome brown houses, as much alike as pins in i 
paper, are on either hand. Pedestrians are few an^ 
walk fast ; the blue and brass soldiers pass her now 
and then, but say nothing. Lights gleam from base 
ment windows. She pauses and looks wistfully at the 
pictures within. Long tables, laid with white damask 
glass and silver sparkling as at Mrs. Abbott’s, servants 
moving about. Sometimes it is a parlor interior, a 
long, glow'ingroom lit with great glass globes, a young 
girl at the piano, the music coming to where the home- 
less listener wearily stands ; mamma with a book or 
work, papa with his paper, little children flitting about. 
A great pain is at her heart. Oh ! what happy people 
there are in the world ! Girls like her, with bright 
homes, happy, cherished, beloved, good. She is not 
good ; she never has been, she never will be — it is not in 
her nature. She has been born different from others — 
more wicked, sullen, fierce, vindictive, and now, last of 
all, ungrateful. A great sob rises in her throat ; she 
moves hurriedly on. She is cold, and tired, and home 
sick — she, who has never had a home, who, more than 
ever before, is homeless to-night. The hard pavement 
burns and blisters her feet, used to tread elastic turf. 
It is growing very late, and very cold. Where shall 
she stay until morning ? She cannot walk much long- 
er ; her wearied limbs lag even now. What shall 
she do ? 

The quiet of these up-town streets begins to fright- 
en her. The blinds are all closed now ; the sweet 
home-pictures can dazzle her no more. She must get 
back to where there are light and life — to that bril 
liant, gas-lit, store-lit street she found herself in first* 


186 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 


But she cannot find it ; she is m another bright 
thoroughfare before long, hut it is not the same — it is 
the Bowery. 

A clocK somewhere strikes ten. Her head is dizzy, 
ft mist is before her eyes, her feet fail, a panic seizes 
her; she grasps a railing to keep from falling. She 
can go no farther, come what may. 

A little ahead there is a building that looks like a 
church. She moves toward it, goes up the steps, and 
sinks down in a heap. A pillar screens her partly ; 
she crouches into the farthest corner, shuts her eyes, 
and tries to rest. 

What shall she do ? 

The question beats like a trip-hammer through her 
dazed brain. She has no money, not one penny ; she 
does not know one living soul of all these restless 
hundreds who flit by. And yet it is characteristic of 
her stubborn resolution that she never once repents 
having run away from George Blake, nor thinks of 
)naking her way back to him. She knows the name 
of the hotel she has quitted ; it is probable she might 
find it again, but the thought never occurs to hei. 
Whatever comes, all that is past and done with ; she 
will never take a single step backward to save herself 
rom the worst fate that can befall. 

'What shall she do? She feels she cannot stay 
crouched here on the cold stones all night. Whither 
shall she go ? — to whom appeal ? She has spent many 
a night in the open air before — nights as cold as this 
~-but the old mill was her safe shelter, the familiar 
croak of her friends, the Irogs, her welcome, the 
solemn surge of the forest her lullaby. Here there 
ftro 'nen more to be feared than wild beasts, pitiless 


nr WHICH JOAIINA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 187 


people, who look at her with hard, staring eyes, the 
“ car rattKng o’er the stony street,” noise, light, 
danger. She has spent no night like this in all her life. 

Soon what she fears most comes to pass — the 
gleam of that fatal red shawl catches the quick eye of 
a passer-by. He stops, pauses in the tune he is whis- 
tling, peers for a moment, then bounds up the steps 
and stands beside her. 

‘‘ Sa-a-y, you, hullo !” 

She looks up. It is only a boy, a gamin of the 
New York streets, with a precocious, ugly, shrewd 
little face — a boy of perhaps thirteen. The infinite 
misery of her eyes strikes this young gentleman with 
a sense of surprise. 

Sa-a-y,” he repeats, “ dodgin’ a cop ?” 

The tone is questioning ; the words, of course, are 
perfectly incomprehensible. She does not reply. 

‘‘ Sa-a-y ! Can’t yer speak ? Dodgin’ a cop ?” 

The tone this time is sympathetic, and is meant to 
reassure her. If she is performing the action in ques- 
tion, he wishes to inform her he has performed it him 
self, and that she may count on his commiseration. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” she says, wearily. 
'‘I am from the country ; I have lost my way in the 
streets. I have no home, no friends. I was very tired, 
and I sat down here to rest.” 

Her head drops against the cold pillar. She is ut- 
terly spiritless and worn out. He stares at her for a 
moment, says “ Golly !” softly to himself, and slowly 
resumes his whistle. He is debating whether to believe 
what she says or not. 

^‘Sa-a-y 1” he drawls, after a little, ‘‘got any 
money ?’" 


188 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HEK FOBTUKE. 


“ Not a penny.” 

He resumes his whistle once more. Once more th6 
keen eyes of the boy of the streets goes over her, takes 
in the silk dress, the gleam of gold, the crimson shawl 
the weary, weary face. 

‘‘Sa-a-y ! what brought ye up to York?” 

‘‘ I came with a — friend. But I did not want to 
stay. I came out and lost myself. You need not ask 
me questions. I cannot tell you more than that. I 
do not know what to do. I have no money to go to 
another hotel.” 

‘‘ Another hotel ! Cricky ! We’ve been in a hotel 
— Fifth Avenoo or the Windsor, I shouldn’t wonder. 
Sa-a-y, I’m blessed if I don’t believe you’re tellin’ the 
truth !” 

She looks up at him indignantly. The cute, boyish 
face is a good-humored one, and his youth gives her 
courage. 

“ I wish you would tell me what to do,” she says, 
piteously. “ You belong here, and must know. I can- 
not stay here all night.” 

“Should think not. Well, you might go to the 
station for protection.” 

“The what?” 

“ The station— -jooliss, you know.” 

“Wh} should I go there?” she exclaims, angrily. 
“I have done nothing wrong. How dare you suggest 
such a thing !” 

“ Blessed if you ain’t a green un !” the boy says, 
grinning. “ If you won’t go there, and get lodgin’ 
free gratia for nothin’, where will ye go ? /Sure you 
got no money ?” 

“Certain. Not one penny” 


nr WHICH JfOAXKA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 189 

“ Well, what’s that a shinin’ so — a gold chain ? 1/ 
ii is gold — the real Jeremiah, mind — you might put it 
up the spout, and get money that way. I^ll show you 
your uncle’s.” 

She looks at him with such bewildered eyes that he 
grins again. 

“ Oh ! she’s a green un, and no mistake. Looky 
here,” he says, adapting his conversation to his com* 
pany, “if I get you a lodgin’, a clean, comfortable, 
’spectable lodgin’, will you pawn your jewelry to pay 
for it ? ’Cause if you will, I guess I can help you.” 

“ Oh ! most willingly !” she says, relieved. 

The brooch and chain are gifts she hates to part 
with, but anything is better than risking a night here. 
She rises at once, and hastily begins to divest herself 
of them. 

“ Don’t you take ’em off now,” the boy says, good- 
naturedly. “ To-morrow ’ll do. Come along. It’s a 
goodish bit of a walk. We might take a car, but 
you’ve no money, and I haint earned salt to my por- 
ridge to-day.” 

“Do you work ?” Joanna asks, eyeing the box and 
Orushes he carries. 

“You bet ! Sells papers in the mornin’ and shines 
boots the rest o’ the time. Haint done a stroke worth 
a cent to-day. Times is awful bad,” says this man of 
business, despondently. “Gents that always took a 
shine before, goes muddy now, sooner’n part with a 
blamed nickel !” 

“Where are you taking me?” the girl inquires. 
She is in some trepidation, although the lad’s face is 
not a bad one, and she is dead tired. 

“ Home, to our house — my old woman’s, you know. 


190 IN WHICH JOANNA fiEBKB HEB FOBItTN*. 


Laundress Bhe is ; does up gents’ and ladies’ fine linen. 
We’ve got a spare room in the attic, and now and then 
we lets it for lodgin’ to girls out o’ place — help, ye 
know. Mother knows ’em by dozens. They pays a 
dollar and a half a week and grubs theirselves. It’s 
empty now, and I guess you can have it. You look 
the right sort, you do. Mother don’t take no other, 
mind you. ’Taint much farther — up four pair, but the 
roof’s handy for dryin’.” 

Joanna is too spent to talk, so in silence they pres- 
ently reach the place. It is up four pairs, and very 
long pairs at that ; she feels as though she could never 
reach the top. They do reach it, however ; the boy 
opens a door, there is a flood of light, a gush of 
warmth, and they are “there.” 

It is now after eleven, but late as is the hour, the 
boy’s mother is still pursuing her avocation. Upon a 
stove glowing red-hot, stands an array of smoothing- 
irons; at a long, narrow table in the middle of the 
floor the woman stands, polishing the bosom of a shirt. 

The room is perfectly neat and clean, two lamps 
light it brightly. The woman herself is in a spotless 
calico dress and long white apron, and looks both re- 
spectable and, like her son, good-natured. On a trun- 
dle-bed, in a corner, two children lie asleep. 

“ Bless us, Thad, how late you are !” she begins. 
Then she sees his companion, and stops inquiringly; 
but in no surprise, and smiles a welcome. “Good 
evening, miss. Come in, and take an air of the fire. 
You look half froze.” 

Joanna advances. The mother takes in, as the son 
has done, the silk dress, the golden trinkets, the fine crim- 
son shawl and her face grows first puzzled, then gjava 


IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HEK FOBTUNIC. 191 

She turns to her son, with something of a frown, and 
motions him into an adjoining room. 

‘‘ Who is this you have brought ?” she asks. J 
don’t know her.” 

‘‘Ko more do I,” Thad rejoins; “but she’s ah 
right — bet you ten cents on it ! She ain’t no help — no 
more she ain’t a street-tramper. She’s a country gal, 
and greener’n grass. Cut away from her friends, I 
guess, and come to New York to seek her fortune. 
They all do it ! Don’t she hope she may find it !” 

“ Where did you pick her up ?” the mother asks 
still dissatisfied. 

Thad explains at some length. Thad’s mother list 
ens, neither satisfied nor convinced. 

“ I’d rather have my room empty forever, you know 
that,” she says, with some asperity, “ than harbor half 
the ruck that’s going. If I thought she wasmUt aii 
right, I’d bundle her off again, and let her go to the 
station, and box your ears into the bargain ! I won’t 
have girls picked up from the streets. I only lodge 
respectable young women out of place.” 

“Well, sh^s a respectable young woman out o' 
place,” says Thad. “ S-a-y, mother, don’t let us stand 
here jawin’. Give a fellow his supper, can’t you, and 
let him go to bed.” 

“And you say she’s got no money says .he 
woman. 

“ No ; but she’s got a gold chain, and the best ^ 
clothes, and is willin’ to put ’em up the spout first thing 
to pay you. Say, mother, you can’t turn her out, sc 
cheese it all, and give us some supper.” 

He returns impatiently to the kitchen, where Jo* 
Mina still sits in a cane rocker near the stove. The 


fd2 IN WHICH JOANNA SEEKS HEE EOKT0NE. 


warmth, the rest, the silence, have lulled her into sleep 
Her head lies against the back, her hat is off, her pale 
tired face has the look of a spent child. 

The woman bends ever her, and gradually the per 
turbed expression leaves her face. No — on that brow 
the dTead/ul brand of the streets has never rested. 
Bhe is little better than a child in years ; the story she 
has told Thad must be true. She is one of those fool- 
ish, romance-reading country girls who run away from 
home and come to New York to seek their fortunes. 
There are so many of them — so many ! Poor souls ! 
the fortune they mostly find is ruin and sin for life, 
and a death of dark despair. This girl has evidently 
been well off ; her dress is of rich silk, handsomely 
trimmed and made, she wears a gold chain and watch, 
a breastpin, and ring. And the shawl on her lap ; the 
woman’s eyes glisten as she lifts it. All her life it has 
been her ambition to own a shawl like this, all wool, 
deeply, darkly, beautifully red. All her life it has 
been an ambition unattained. 

“ I will keep her a fortnight for this shawl,” she 
thinks, replacing it, “ if she’s a mind to make the bar- 
gaun.” 

Thad is calling lustily for his supper. It is soon 
aei before him — some slices of cold corned beef, some 
bread and butter, and coffee. The lad falls to with an 
appetite, and his mother gently awakens Joanna. 

** You must be hungry,” she says ; “ take some sup- 
per and go to bed.” 

But Joanna is not hungry ; she dined late, and 
fared well. She is very, very tired, though, and will 
go to bed, with her hostess’s permission. 

My name is Gibbs,” suggests the matron, taking 


m WHICH TO A.NNA SEEKS HER FORTUNE. 193 


one of the lamps, “Mrs. Gibbs. Will you tell me 
yours ?” 

For a moment there is a pause. She has no name. 
The hated one of Sleaford is not hers ; she would not 
retain it if it were. Blafke, she thinks of giving ; but 
no, she has no right to poor George’s name. The only 
one that belongs to her is Joanna — Wild Joanna. Then 
it flashes upon her — she has only to reverse that, and 
she is now christened for life. 

“ My name is Wild,” she says, “Joanna Wild.” 

“ And you look it,” thinks Mrs. Gibbs, going on 
with the lamp ; “ wild by name, and wild by nature, I 
dare say. But you’re not a street-traraper, and that’s 
a beautiful shawl, so it’s all right.” 

The room is a tiny attic chamber, with a sloping 
roof, and lit by only two lights of glass. The bed is 
wide enough to lie down on, but certainly to tu^n in it 
would be a serious risk. Still it looks perfectly clean, 
and that is everything. The floor is bare ; one chair 
comprises all the furniture there is space for. 

“I hope you will sleep w' ell,” says Mrs. Gibbs, kind- 
ly. “ There’s a bolt on the door, if you’ve a mind to, 
but you’re quite safe up here.” 

“ Thank you,” Joanna says. “ Good night.” 

Mrs. Gibbs returns to her son and her work — two 
is her general hour for retiring. 

“ Gone to roost, has she ?” inquires Thad, still going 
into his supper with energy and appetite. “She’s a 
lum un, she is. Wonder if her mother knows she’s 
out ?” 

And so, by the mercy of Heaven, Joanna is saved 
from the streets, and sleeps deeply, dreamlessly, and 
long, in her hard little attic bed. 

9 


194 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HFE FOBTHNB. 


CHAPTER VI. 


IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HEE FOETUNE 



ITH the rising of the next morning’s frost > 
sun, Joanna’s new life may fairly be said 
to begin. 

It is rather late when she descends to 
the room with the cooking-stove, which is kitchen, 
parlor, dining-room, and children’s sleeping-room, in- 
clusive. The little black stove so superheats it that 
the windows are open, and two or three pots of hardy 
rose geraniums flourish on the sills. They make a 
pleasant spot of color to the girl’s country eyes, with 
their vivid green leaves and pink blossoms. Sunlight 
finds the room as tidy as lamplight. Mrs. Gibbs 
stands over a tub in a corner, washing, a little boy 
and girl of five toddle about, each with a doll made 
out of a bottle. This is the home scene that greets 
Joanna. 

“Good morning,” Mrs. Gibbs says. “ How did you 
rest, my dear ?” 

Mrs. Gibbs’ language and manners are superior to 
her station, and Mrs. Gibbs greatly prides herself 
thereon. She is a person of literary tastes, and has 
seen better days. The better days were in the life- 
time of the late Mr. Gibbs, when she had but little to 
do, and a great deal of time to read romances, of 
which she is exceedingly fond. 

Mr. Gibbs was by profession a mason’s assistant, in 
other words, a hod -carrier, and one day, overcome by 
nmHitroke, fell off a scaffolding and was instantly 


IN WHICH JOANNA FINOS HER FORTUNE. 195 


killed. That was four years ago, and since then Mrs. 
Gibbs had adopted the occupation of laundress, and 
wisely eschewed romance. But what she has read has 
left its mark. Her eldest son making his appearance 
about the time she completed “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” 
was named after that hero. After a pause of seven 
years, twins arriving almost simultaneously with a copy 
of “ Alonzo and Melissa,” these innocents were chris- 
tened after that romantic pair. It is Alonzo and Me- 
lissa who are now pressing to their chubby bosoms two 
root-beer bottles, and pausing in their play to stare 
with round, wondering eyes at the new-comer. Thad- 
deus has departed to retail the day’s news, and after- 
ward “ shine ” gentlemen’s boots. 

“ I slept very well,” Joanna answers, and holds out 
her hand with a smile to the little ones. 

She loves children, and her eyes brighten at sight 
of them. Many good traits are in the girl’s character 
that have never had a chance to come out — this is one 
of them. She has never known a child in her life. 

' Alonzo and Melissa look at her, and, with the in 
tuitive instinct of children and dogs, see in her a friend 
at once. 

“ Perhaps you won’t mind getting your own break- 
fast?” says Mrs. Gibbs. “I’m busy, as you see. 
There’s the teapot on the stove, and the dishes, and 
bread and butter are in the pantry. Set the table 
yourself and take your breakfast.” 

“ I feel as if I were a burden to you,” Joanna says, 
“but I hope it will not be for long. I have no money 
now, but the very first I earn I will give you.” 

She says it with an honesty and earnestness her 
hoetesB tees is very real. Mrs. GKbbs finds she “ likes 


196 IN WHICH J0ANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 


tke looks of her ” by daylight, though she is an ud 
common-looking young woman somehow, too. 

“ What do you intend to do ?” she asks, rubbing 
cway at the shirt she is at work upon. 

She smiles a little to herself as she asks — she knows 
BO well what the answer will be. All these girls «^ho 
run away from their friends seem to have but oiae idea 
— to go on the stage and dazzle the New York public 
as full-fledged Lady Macbeths. They may lea^e home 
plain and unattractive enough, but something in the 
air of the great city is to make them beautiful and 
talented, and send them home to their relatives in a 
few years, dazzling visions of loveUness, fame, and 
wealth. It happens like that to their favorite heroines 
why not to them ? But Joanna’s reply it not to order 

‘‘ I intend to work,” she says steadily , “ there is nc 
kind of housework, I think, I cannot dv. I am ver) 
strong, and very willing. I can wasL, iron, cook — ] 
have done it all my life.” 

Mrs. Gibbs is so astonished that pauses in hei 
washing, and, with suds up to her elbvws, gazes admir 
ingly at the speaker. 

‘‘Well! upon my word!” she says. Then she 
laughs, and vigorously resumes her rubbing. “I didn’i 
expect that, you see,” she explains. “Work is tht 
last thing girls that run — come up from the country— 
Beem to think of. I have known lots of ’em, and 1 
never knew one yet who wanted to work. They cai 
get enough of that at home. They want to go on the 
stage, and be ballet girls, actresses, what not. They seen 
to think the New York flagstones are made of gold 
Poor things, they soon find out their mistake ! Some 
times they go back ashamed and half starved, some 


IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORI ONE. 197 


times they stay on, and — ah ! dear me, the city is a 
bad place for a friendless country girl. And you want 
to work. Oh, well ! you will get that fast enough ; 
always plenty to do for willing hands and hearts. And 
housework’s easier got than most things, than places 
in stores, or sewing, or genteel things like that. But 
I wonder, seeing it’s a hard life, that you came up for 
that. By your dress you should have been pretty well 
off down there — wherever it is. You won’t make 
enough at housework, let me tell you, to buy silk 
dresses like that, and gold watches and chains.” 

Joanna glances down at her silk robe and smiles, 
wondering what good Mrs. Gibbs would say if she 
knew the truth. 

“You must have had a good home,” continues the 
widow, “and kind friends. Take my advice. Miss 
Wild, and go back before it is too late. The city ii 
not what you think it. Go back to your good home, 
no matter how hard you may have to work, and thank 
the Lord you’ve got it.” 

“ It was not a good home,” Joanna says, steadily. 
“I had not kind friends. It was a bad, cruel place to 
live in. Yes, bad, and they were bad people. I had 
no friends in that house.” 

“ And yet your dress, your jewelry ” 

“Oh ! the dress ! that is nothing !” the girl says, 
with a touch of her old impatience ; “ the watch and 
chain were New Year gifts from a lady who was kind 
to me. But I cannot go back — I never will go back, 
I am willing and able to work ; you may recommend 
me without fear. The jewelry I will sell and pay yo 
— the watch I should like to keep for the lady’s sake,” 
her voice falters a little “ You have been kind to m« 


103 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTHNB. 


—you have saved me from the streets. As sure as J 
live, you will find me grateful.” 

There is silence. Mrs. Gibbs rubs away, Joanna 
clears off the breakfast service. Suddenly the widow 
breaks out : 

“Look here. Miss Wild, I don’t want to take nc 
mean advantage of you, but, of course, I can’t afford 
to keep you for nothing. But I will keep you, board, 
and everything, for — say a fortnight — that will give 
you time to look about you and get used to town, for 
that red shawl of yours. There ! I like that shawl. 
If you think it a fair exchange, say so.” 

She looks eagerly as she makes the proposal, evi- 
dently fearing a refusal. That any one can possess 
such a beautiful garment, and be willing to part with 
it, is what she does not expect. But Joanna’s face 
lights with relief at the offer. 

“ The red shawl !” she exclaims, laughing, and again 
wondering what honest Mrs. Gibbs would say if she 
knew how she had come by it, “ why, certainly. I am 
glad to be rid of it — Zcould not wear a red shawl if I 
wanted to. I am sure I do not know why I bought it. 
Take it and welcome.” 

The widow draws a long breath — the desire of many 
years is attained at last. 

“Well, I’m sure. I’m much obliged. It’s a beauti- 
ful shawl, all wool, soft as silk, snd such a lovely color, 
I will tell you what I’ll do,” cries Mrs. Gibbs, in a 
burst of gratitude, “you shaF stay for three weeks, if 
you’ve a mind to, and Thad shall take you about Sun- 
days, and I’ll find you a nice easy place in a small fam 
ily, as waitress, or nurse-girl, or something of the sort 
Would you mind wearing a cap, and white ap’*on ?” 


IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HER FORTUNE. 199 


It appears, upon explanation, that Joanna would 
mind those badges of servitude, although otherwise 
preferring the situation of children’s nurse. 

“Well, then, it must be general housework, I sup- 
pose,” says Mrs. Gibbs, “ but never mind. I’ll find you 
a nice, easy place, with only two or three in the fam- 
ily, and every Sunday out. You must come to see me 
often, and look upon this as your home whenever out 
of place.” 

Amicable relations of the warmest kind being thus 
established through the medium of Liz’s brilliant red 
shawl, no more is said. But fate has decreed that Jo- 
anna not to get that “ nice, easy place,” or begin life 
as ^^aid of all work. Her voice and her five years' 
steady training stand her in stead at last, in the very 
way she least expects. 

It begins by the cordial friendship that springs up 
in the bosoms of Alonzo and Melissa for Miss Wild. 
They take to her, and she to them, in a way quite won- 
derful, considering the brevity of the acquaintance. 

On the evening of the third day, as Joanna sits in 
the rocking-chair before the glowing stove, with Me- 
lissa and her “ bottle baby ” in her lap, it chances that, 
half unconsciously, she begins to sing. It is that little 
Scotch song Frank Livingston used to like, “ My ain 
ingle side.” 

Mrs. Gibbs is ironing. Outside a wild night is clos- 
ing in, with high wind, and lashing sleet, and rain 
As Joanna sings and rocks, she is thinking how this 
fierce tempest is surging through the pine woods, rat 
tling the timbers of the old mill, troubling the frozen 
depths of Black’s Dam. She shudders to think that 
but for George Blake — oh, poor George Blake l—she 


goo IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HEB FC aiUNB. 


might be lying at this hour dead in its !:c ul waters 
What are they doing at Sleaford’s ? — what at Abbott 
Wood ? What does Mrs. Abbott, Geoffrey, Leo, think 
of her ? Is George Blake seeking her through the vast 
city in vain ? Is Frank Livingston going to the opera, 
or the theater, or a ball somewhere up in these stately 
brown-stone streets ? 

As she thinks she sings, and as she sings, Mrs. Gibbs 
gradually ceases work, and listens with open mouth. 
The Scotch song is finished ; she begins another, a 
German cradle song this time, a crooning, sweet sort 
of lullaby, that Leo used to like at this hour. The 
iron in the listener’s hand has grown cold ; she stands 
lost in wonder at this singing bird she has caged. 

“Lord bless me. Miss Wild !” she says, when Jo- 
anna ceases, “wherever did you learn to sing like 
that?” 

The girl looked up at her vacantly, not yet returned 
from dream-land. 

“Eh?” she says ; “singing? Was I singing? I 
did not know it. I was thinking of something else.” 

Mrs. Gibbs stares. 

“ Upon my word. Miss Wild,” she exclaims, “ you 
are a strange young woman ! Why, you sing like a 
— like a — like Mademoiselle Azelma herself !” 

“ Who is Mademoiselle Azelma ?” 

“ She’s a singing lady — a German. Who learned 
you to sing in German ? I declare, I never was more 
surprised in my life !” 

“ Indeed ! Because I can sing ? Oh, yes, I can 
sing — I can play, too, although my hands do not look 
like it,” Joanna says, smiling. 

You’re the most wonderful yojing girl I evei 


WHICH JOANNA FiNOS HEH FOETCNE, 201 


''%me across !” repeats woodering Mrs. Gibbs. ** Who 
'rfould ever think you could sing like that? Do sing 
another — out loud this time. Never mind Lissy — she’s 
®«leep.” 

Joanna obeys. She uplifts that fine, pure, strong 
contralto of hers, and sings “ Roberto o tu che adoro,” 
and the Italian, and the compass of voice, and ths 
thrilling sweetness of the song itself, completely con- 
founds good Mrs. Gibbs. She gives up utterly, and 
sits down. 

“Well, I never!” she says, and stares blankly at 
the girl. “ I never in all my life !” — another stare. 
“I do declare I never did !” says Mrs. Gibbs, and get# 
up again with a gasp. 

Joanna laughs outright. She has a delightful 
laugh — merry, girlish, sweet — but its sound is so un- 
usual it startles herself. 

“ Is it so very wonderful, then ?” she says, still 
laaghing. “ I know I sing well ; I was well taught.” 

“ Tell me this,” says Mrs. Gibbs, almost angrily — 
“why did you say you had no friends, when you have 
the education, and manners, and dress of a lady ? 
Why, your musical education must have cost a sight.” 

“ I suppose it did. I told you I had one friend — 
the lady who gave me my watch. When I was a lit- 
tle, half-starved, ill-used child, she heard me sing, and 
thought my voice worth cultivating. She has educated 
me ; I owe her everything. She would have taken me 
for good, long ago, only those I lived with would not 
give me up.” 

“Why did you not go to her when you ran 
away ?” 

“ I would not have been allowed to remain. There 




202 IN WHICH JOANN i FINDS HEB FOBTTJICB. 


ivere other reasons besides. But yoa need not be 
afraid ; I will work just as well when you get me that 
place, as though I could not sing a note.” 

“ You work I” retorts Mrs. Gibbs, almost contemp 
tuously ; “ with such a voice as that ! I will get yon 
no place. I will speak to Mr. Ericson about you 
instead.” 

Joanna looks inquiringly. 

“Mr. Ericson is a German,” says the widow, re- 
suming her work — “ a teacher of music and singing. 
I do up his linen. His brother is proprietor of a the- 
ater — a little German theater — and Mile. Azelma sings 
there, and makes ever so much money. But Mile. 
Azelma is a very difficult lady to get along with ; 
whenever she is out of temper, it flies to her throat, 
and she cannot sing that night. Professor Ericson 
swears at her awful in Dutch, and says if he could get 
any one to take her place, he would send her about 
her business. Now, I have heard her, and I do think 
you sing better than she does ; and then you have 
been trained to singing, which is everything. To-mor- 
row I am going to take his shirts home, and you shall 
go with me, and sing for him. If he takes a fancy to 
you your fortune is made.” 

“ But I don’t want to go on the stage,” Joanna 
says, blankly ; “I could not. I never was in a theater 
in my life. I never thought of such a thing.” 

“Then you had better begin, for it’s the very thing 
to suit you, with that voice. You will earn ten times 
as much as in any other way, and if you know how to 
take care of yourself, it’s as safe as any other life 
It’s a most respectable little theater, only not first-class, 
of course. Fashionable people don’t g i there. Mr. 


£N WHICH JOA]!nHA FITIDS HER FORTXTHE. 203 


Eiiosoii has given me and Thad tickets often. Make 
up your mind, ray dear, that that voice wasn’t given 
you for nothing, or all that teaching either, and earn 
your hving in the easiest way. Corae with me tomcr 
roW;, and let Mr. Ericson hear you.” 

Joanna is startled ; the idea is new, but she is open 
to conviction. She goes with Mrs. Gibbs on the mor- 
row, and is presented in due form to Herr Ericson, a 
little, yellow man, with a bushy white mustache and 
a frowning brow. 

“ You can sing ?” he says, scowling under his eye- 
brows at the girl. “ Bah ! Mrs. Gibbs does not know 
singing when she hears it. You can play ? There is 
a piano — while I pay for my shirts, sit down and sing 
a song.” 

His brusque manner sets Joanna more completely 
at her ease than any civility. He looks at her con- 
temptuously. She will show this cross little man she 
can sing. She seats herself, plays a prelude, and be- 
gins one of her best German songs. The little pro- 
fessor counts out his laundress’s money, stops suddenly, 
fixes his spectacles more securely on his nose, rises has- 
tily, crosses to the piano, and scowls a scowl of intense 
surprise. 

“ Good !” he says ; a trifle more snappishly the ugh, 
if possible, than before. “ You can sing. And you 
have been trained. That is a very good song, and ren- 
dered with expression. You want to go on the stage ?” 

Joanna shrugs her shoulders. 

“ I really do dot care about it, Herr Professor. I 
never thought of such a thing until Mrs. Gibbs iug- 
gevted i\” 


304 IN WHICH JOANNA FINDS HEE FORTUNE. 


Humph ! If I get you a place will you accept it 

“ A place ?” 

“A situation — an engagement to sing at my broth 
er’s theater. The salary will not be much at first 
You car go on in the chorus, and so get used to the 
stage. And I have a project in my mind. Yes, a pro 
ject ” 

He breaks off, and walks rapidly up and down, his 
hands in his pantaloons’ pockets, frowning horribly, 
and biting his mustache. 

“ Look you here !” he says, ‘‘ you can sing. You 
suit me. You are the sort of a young woman I have 
been looking for for some time. Plenty can sing. 
Bah ! that is nothing ! A voice without cultivation — 
that is the devil ! You have been trained. In a week 
you might go before an audience and make your debuL 
You shall go before an audience. You shall make 
your dehut / Tell me this — who are your friends ?” 

“ 1 have none, Mr. Ericson.” 

“ Good ! Better and better ! Friends are the very 
deuce ! Now listen to me. Hundreds would jump at 
the offer I am going to make, with voices as good as 
yours, only not the cultivation — mind you ! You have 
a voice — yes ! You will make a success — true ! You 
will never be a great cantatrice !” shaking one nervous 
finger at her ; do not think it. Not a Nilsson, not a 
Patti — nothing like it — but a fair singer, a popular vo- 
calist, that you will be. And you shall make your 
dehut at my brother’s theater, and you shall be paid, 
and you shall be my protegee. Mile. Azelma shall go 
to the devil ! But you will make no engagement with 
my brother, for I have another project in my head,*^ 
tapping that member. “Later you shall hear. To- 


VX WHICH JOANNA FINDS HilR JOKTUNE. 20C 


day I will speak to my brother ; to-morrow night yoc 
shall go on in the chorus. Good day !” 

He turns them out of the room, then flies after, and 
calls back Mrs. Gibbs. For Joanna, she is fairly be* 
wildered with the rapidity of all this. 

“ You take care of that girl, Madame Gibbs !” the 
professor says, frowning fiercely. “ Mark you I she 
has a fortune in her throat.” 

It all comes to pass as the professor wills. He is a 
sort of human whirlwind, with no idea of letting any 
other living creature have a will of his own where he 
is. He does speak to ‘‘ my brother ” — a large, mild man 
of true German stolidity. He provides a costume for 
the debutante, and sends her on in the chorus. It is a 
small theater ; the performance is German, the actors, 
the singers, the audience are all German. Joanna 
goes on and goes off with a phlegm that even Pro- 
fessor Ericson admires. She is nothing daunted by all 
the faces, and is used to drawing-room performances. 

After a night or two, she begins to enter into the 
spirit of the thing, and to like it. The professor loses 
no time ; he begins at once to drill her in Mile. Azel- 
ma’s principal roles. She hears that popular prima- 
donna, and feels convinced she can equal her, at least. 
A spirit of ambition, of rivalry, arises within her. The 
first time Azelma’s temper flies to her throat, she. Miss 
Wild, is to take her place. 

That time is not long coming. Mile. Azelma’* 
latest costume fits badly, her larynx is at once affected j 
that evening she is too seriously indisposed to sing — 
something else must be substituted. Nothing else 
ihaU, swears the Herr Professor. And in a beautiful 
mtume. Miss Wild, to the surprise of everybody, 


206 IN WHICH JOANN 4 FINDS illvll N'(,UTTnrB. 


takes Mile. Azelma’s part, and sings better than that 
lady ever did in all her life. The audience applaud 
— they, like the management, are tired of the leading 
lady’s caprices. Herr Ericson glows with delight. 
He fairly clasps Joanna in his arff^s when she come* 
off. 

‘‘ You sing like an angel,” he cries, in a rapture. 
‘‘ Mile. Azelma may go hang herself ! Ah ! I foresee 
my project wdll be a grand success.” 

Next day the project is unfolded. It is to travel 
through the country, with Joanna, and Sinothev protege 
of his, a young Italian tenor he has picked up and in- 
structed, and give concerts. Madame Ericson, who is 
dso a vocalist of no mean ability, goes with them. 
They will be a company of four ; and they will storm 
die provinces ! They will make their fortunes ! They 
jpill see life ! They will cover themselves with im- 
nortality ! 

It suits Joanna exactly. Already she is anxious 
W leave New York. Twice she has passed Frank Liv 
ingston on the street, and once on horseback in the 
park. On neither occasion has he noticed her, but the 
rencontre has set her heart beating wildly. Riding in 
the park, with a young lady by his side, lie has looked 
like a demi-god in Joanna’s dazed eyes, something so 
far above and beyond her, that she wonders to remember 
she has ever spoken to him at all. And her last words 
to him were a bitter rebuke. She is not safe in New 
York ; he, or George Blake, may meet and recognize 
her, any day. To all who have known her, she wishes 
to be forever lost. 

Early in May the little company are to start. All this 
time Joanna has gone on living with Mrs. Gibbs, whom 


THE TEAGEDl AT SLEAEOBD’S. 


20t 


•he has paid and repaid, over and over again The 
rest of her earnings are swallowed up by a wardrobe, 
which the Herr Professor insists shall be handsome 
and abundant. She is to sing songs in character, and 
many costumes are needed to fit them all. 

The winter days fly by. May comes, warm and 
sunny. From Brightbrook she has heard nothing. 
She does not want to hear. That life is dead and 
done with, it holds no memory that is not of pain. 
Sleaford’s Joanna lives no more. Miss Wild does, 
and her new life seems to open pleasantly and promis- 
ingly enough. About the middle of May they leave 
New York, and Joanna is fairly launched in her new 
life. 


CHAPTER Vn. 

THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD’ 8. 

ND at Brightbrook ? 

It chances that Mr. Giles Sleaford is ab- 
sent from the bosom of bis family while all 
these disastrous affairs are going on. Mr. 
Sleaford is a patron of the ring, and a pugilistic en- 
counter for the championship of a town some forty 
miles away takes place about this time. 

In company with some other congenial souls, Giles 
is on the spot, betting heavily drinking deeply, swear- 
ing roundly, and using his own fists — mawlers, Mr. 
Sleaford terms them — freely when occasion offers. And 
•o it falls out that for nine days after the flight of Jo- 
anna, that flight remains a secret to Black Giles. 

On the evening of that ninth day Mr. Sleaford rt 



W THE TEAQEDY AT SLEAFOED 8. 

turns to his home and family, blacker than usual. Tucr« 
savage than usual, a sadder, though by no means « 
wiser man, cursing his luck, his eyes, the road, the 
weather, and prefixing the British adjective “bloody” 
to each, as he jogs along. 

The road is certainly rutty, the weather especially 
gloomy and raw. A keen January wind is blowing, 
and driving the sleet in fierce, slanting lines into Mr. 
Sleaford’s inflamed and whisky-bleared eyes. 

A great bitterness is upon him ; the vanity of all 
things earthly, of P. R. set-to’s in particular, has been 
forced upon him rudely. The man he has backed has 
been beaten, shamefully and hopelessly, and put in 
chancery in three rounds. Put not your trust in prize 
fighters, has been sadly brought home to Mr. Giles 
Sleaford. 

He ambles on, on his jaded horse, stopping at every 
“ pub,” until, as the black and sleety winter night is 
closing in, he reaches the Red Farm. 

The cheery light of fire and lamp streams far out 
over the iron-bound road ; warmth and the savory 
smell of supper greet him. But Mr. Sleaford’s pater- 
nal greeting is growled out, strongly impregnated with 
whisky fumes, and is a gruff command for Joanna to 
come and pull off his boots. His (adjective) hards are 
BO (adjective) froze that bless his (adjective) eyes, if 
he can do it himself ! 

There is a pause ; Jud and the two girls exchange 
glances. They are all afraid of their father, excent 
Dan, and Dan at the present moment is not theie. 
Neither is Joanna, Mr. Sleaford sees, but in her place 
is a strapping country lass of fifteen or so, whoni jh* 
eyes with surly amaze and disfavor. 


THE TRAGEDY AT SLEAFORD’S. 


20f 


‘‘Well, bless my (adjective) eyes!” repeats Mr. 

Jfleaford, ferociously, “ what the do you mean, bj 

Itandin’ there like a passell of stuck pigs, and starin ’ } 
Why the don’t you call that gal ?” 

“Looky here, dad,” says Jud, to whom the girls 
mutely appeal, “ it’s no good making a row, but Joanna 
ain’t here. She’s cut and run — there !” 

“Hey?” roars Giles Sleaford, staring in fierce 
amazement at his son. 

“ True as gospel, dad — out and run a week — nine 
days ago — with George Blake.” 

“And stole all our things — my new silk suit and 
hat, and Liz’s shawl 1” chimes in Lora. 

“Went off at break of day, to New York, with 
Blake,” continued Jud, plucking up heart of grace to 
face his formidable father. “ Cut Dan’s head open 
with a horsewhip first, and all for wanting her to sing 
at Watjen’s.” 

Giles Sleaford’s jaw drops ; his eyes start as if 
about to fall from their sockets. He is still “ far wide ” 
^he only takes in the one blank fact that Joanna has 
run away. 

“ This is how it was,” goes on Jud, seeing his pa- 
rent’s mystification. 

And thereupon gives a dispassionate and perfectly 
correct version of the whole proceeding. He does not 
spare Dan ; in his heart Jud exults in the pluck Joanna 
has shown, and chuckles inwardly whenever he looks 
at his brother’s wound. He, himself, has never lifted 
his hand to the girl. 

Giles Sleaford listens in dead silence. Even after 
his son has done, he sits staring with open mouth and 
eyes, quite rigid and mute. 


210 


THE TKAGEDY AT SLEAFOED ». 


This is so unexpected and thrilling that the Misse« 
Sleaford exchange apprehensive looks ; they have ex- 
pected an outburst of rage and red-hot oaths — they 
hear neither. 

With a snap, Black Giles’s jaws come together 
again, as the chops of a dog close over a bone. Then 
he takes down his short black pipe, and slowly begins 
to load it to the muzzle — all without a word of com- 
ment. He lights up, fills the kitchen with volumes of 
smoke, always in awful and ominous silence. 

Presently Dan comes in, and his father eyes in a 
peculiar way the longitudinal strip of plaster that 
adorns his brow. No greeting, except a grumbling 
sort of grunt on Dan’s part, is exchanged. 

Mr. Sleaford sits buried in profound reflection. 
Supper is announced, strong and savory, as it is in the 
nature of the Sleaford repasts to be. Fried beefsteak 
smothered in onions and grease, mashed potatoes, hot 
buckwheat cakes and tea. Giles takes out his pipe, 
and falls to, with the sharp-set air of a man who has 
traveled forty miles, and who does not permit the loss 
of two hundred dollars, and a household drudge, to 
impair his appetite. But the Sleaford family are, ono 
and all, valiant trenchermen and women. 

Seen through the lighted windows, it is a cheerful 
picture enough of rough, homely comfort and abun- 
dance — the bountifully spread table, the five healthy, 
dark-skinned, highly-colored faces — but the repast is 
eaten in perfect silence, except a few whimpered re- 
marks between the girls. 

Outside, the sleet is still lashing the glass, and the 
night has fairly closed in, in dense darkness and storm. 
This is the anbject of the whispers, and a matter of 


THE TEAGEDY AT SLEAFOED’s. 


211 


some concern to the Misses Sleaford, who are due at a 
dance some few miles up the village, and the unpleas- 
ant weather is something of a damper to their expected 
-‘ujoyment. 

After supper, still without a word, Giles gets up, 
buttons his rough coat, puts on his fur cap, twists some 
yards of red scarf about his neck, and leaves the house. 
The young people look at each other uneasily. 

“ Did you tell the old man ?” asks Dan. 

“ Jud did,” says Lora, ‘‘ and he never said a word 
— not one single blessed word. I wonder where he’s 
going ?” 

“What d’ye bet it ain’t to Abbott Wood?” says 
Jud, carefully putting his beloved fiddle in its case. 
“ That old red rooster up there knows more about our 
dad than any one else. He’s going for money. He’s 
been pretty well shook, for I know he backed the 
Brightbrook Beauty heavy, and he’s gone for another 
supply of the needful. 1 thought he’d raise the roof 
when he heard of Joanna’s bein’ gone, but bless your 
eyes, he took it like Mary’s little lamb ! I wonder 
where Jo is, to-night?” 

“Yes, I wonder!” says Liz, viciously. “I wish I 
had her here for about ten minutes, I would pay her 
out for my beautiful new red shawl.” 

If they could have, seen Joanna at that moment, 
they would have seen her “ going on ” in the train of 
Mile. Azelma, and facing a New York German audi- 
ence for the first time. 

“ If you gals a'e coming, come,’' growls Dan. “ I 
am going to get round the sleigh, so be ready^ as I 
won’t wait — mind that.” 

The young ladies hurry off, giving sundry direotioni 


THE TKAGEDf AT gLEAFORD’S. 

to Joanna’s successor, the stout-limbed rustic maiden, 
at present supping off the fragments of the feast. 
They will not be home until morning ; she need not sit 
up for father, and she is to have breakfast for them, 
tot and hot, when they return in the morn’ng about 
six. Then they ascend to their chamber to adorn 
themselves for the dance, envelop themselves in shawls 
and ‘‘ clouds,” and finally stow themselves away in the 
back seat of the sleigh, and are driven through the 
wnlte whirling storm to their destination. 

Their father, meantime, has reached his, which 
proves to be, as Jud has predicted, Abbott Wood. 
He still maintains that ominous composure which has 
so surprised his family, but there is a fierce light of 
dogged determination in his sinister eyes. It is some- 
thing more than common that takes him to Abbott 
Wood. Since he first became the tenant of the Red 
Farm, fully six years before, he has only entered that 
house once — one other stormy night. He is going 
there again, through darkness, and tempest and wind, 
and this time, too, its master shall do his bidding, or 
he, Giles, will know the reason why. As before, 
Joanna is the cause that brings him. 

He reaches the house, a huge black bulk in the 
darkness, but few lights to be seen. He grinds his 
teeth, and shakes his fist at it, as he rings a peal that 
brings two startled men-servants hurriedly to the 
door. 

“ Is your master in ?” he surlily demands. 

The men stare, but the fierce, black-bearded face 
commands civility, and an answer. 

Not in. At Brightbrook. Dinner party. WilL 
be back to-night, but do not know when. 


THE TRAGEDY AT SLEaFuRD’S. 


213 


‘‘ You’re mre he ain’t in ?” says Giles, eyeing the 
men in a way that makes them step hurriedly back. 
“ ’Cause why ? You’ll save him some trouble if he is, 
by tellin’ him Giles Sleaford is here, and wants to see 
him, uncommon particular.” 

He is not in, both men assure him, with the earnest- 
ness of personal alarm. 

“Hah! Werry well, then. When he does come 
in you tell him this : ‘ Giles Sleaford’s been here,’ 
ses you. ‘ Giles Sleaford,’ ses you, ‘ come through all 
this here bloomin’ storm a-purpose to see you to-night, 
and he must see you to-night. Giles Sleaford,’ you 
ses, ‘left them words — must see you to-night. He 
can’t wait, leastways he won’t, not here, but he’ll wait 
for you at his own place,’ you ses, ‘ till after one 
o’clock, and you^d better come ! Them,’ you ses, ‘ was 
Giles Sleaford’s own expressions.’ You tell your mas- 
ter them words, my man, when he comes from that ’ere 
dinner-party.” 

With which Giles Smaford turns away, remounts 
his horse, and rides back to the Red Farm. 

The girl has doc retired ; she is nodding stupidly 
over the kitchen stove. With an oath she is dis- 
missed to bed. and goep. She is a dull, lumpish crea- 
ture. and is frightened to find herself alone with the 
racs and black beetles, and this savage man. 

She has Joanna’s little room under the rafters, 
adjoining Giles’s own, and opposite the two occupied 
by the Sleaford boys and girls. She gets into bed, and 
falls fast asleep in a moment. 

She does not know how long she sleeps. All the 
events of that dreadful night are blurred and con- 
founded in her dnll brain* She awakei suddenly tu 


214 


THE TEA&EBT AT SLEAFOED’S. 


the sound of the fiercely-beating storm, th^ 
freezing as it falls, lashing the windows like lines ot 
steel, the wind roaring dismally through the woods. 
It is very cold, too, and she shivers on her hard bed. 

Other sounds reach her from below, the sounds o< 
voices talking — loud and angry voices. Can the girls 
have come hack ? No, these are not girls’ voices, they 
are the harsh^ strong voices of disputing men. More 
and more frightened, she tries to hear — theie are two, 
and both seem to be talking together. Now she 
recognizes the voice of her master — tL; other is 
unknown. 

“You don’t believe me ! ” She hears these words 
distinctly, shouted rather than spoken by Sleaford ; 
“ by ! then you shall believe me ! I have them up- 

stairs in my room unbeknown to any in this house. 
Come along ! by you shall see them, you shall be- 

lieve me ! I have them, by the Eternal, and what’s 
more, I have yoii^ and I’ll not spare you ! No, may I 
be everlastingly if I do ! ” 

The imprecations with which Ihis apostrophe is in 
terlarded turns the blood of the young person who 
listens, as she ever after informs her audience, into a 
mask of ice. The sound of heavy footsteps stumbling 
up-stairs follows, two men enter the adjoining room. 

There is a fumbling noise as of a search, a smothered 
mumble of threats and curses in the amiable tones of 
Mr. Sleaford — silence on the part of the other man- 
then an exclamation of triumph. 

“There ! ” cr es Sleaford, “ look there ! Don’t you 
touch ’em, or I’ll let daylight through you. Just loot 
at ’em. Here’s the first — you’ve seen that afore 
Herd’s the second— look ! that’s new. Maybe ve be 


THE TRAGEDY aT SLEAFORD’ 8. 


213 


(ieve me now ? Keep off — keep off, yon, or by 

all that’s great I’ll have your blood ! D’ye think I’ll 
let them go, after keeping ’em these eighteen years ? 
Da ! you would, would you ? ” 

There is a crash — it is a falling lamp, an explosion 
—a fierce struggle — some dreadful oaths. 27im — over 
'he crash of the storm, of lashing sleet and howling 
wind, there is a shriek, a dreadful, unnatural scream 
of agony, then a heavy fall, a hollow moan, then 
silence. 

The girl in the bed huddles up in a heap, frozen 
with terror. There is a stamping sound ; it is one of 
the men stamping out the flame of the oil, then a 
pause, then rapid footsteps rushing down the stairs. 
A door opens, shuts, then again there is the darkness, 
the tumult of the storm, and silence in that awful 
inner-room. 

It is a dreadful silence, dreadfully broken. A groan 
falls on the strained ear of the poor terrified gk*l. 

“ Help ! ” a faint voice calls, “ I am stabbed.” 

She does not dare stir, her teeth chatter, the bed 
shakes beneath her with fright. 

“ Help ! ” says that failing voice once more, “ for 
God’s sake ! ” 

She cannot move, she seems frozen fast to the bed 
wherein she crouches. That terrible cry comes no 
more — profound stillness reigns in that frightful next 
room. 

How the hours of that night pass this frightened 
creature never can tell. Her hair does not turn white, 
which speaks well for its stability of color. She never 
moves' -she has buried herself in a heap under the bed« 
clothes, and lies there, shivering and quaking. 


916 


THE TSAGEDY AT SLEAFORD 8. 


With the first gray streak of dawn sl<5 rises, nnmb 
and stiff, puts on her clofhes, opens with shaking 
hand the door, shuts her eyes fast, lest they should 
light on some horrible specter, and bolts down stairs, 
out of the horrid house, far over the soaked and sod- 
den fields, as fast as her legs can carry her, away, away, 
anywhere, anywhere, out of that horrible place ! 

It is a wild, blusterous morning ; the storm is not 
yet spent ; jagged clouds frown on the earth, sur- 
charged with rain ; the wind beats her fiercely ; the 
pallid, blank day has hardly begun. But at the near- 
est house the goodman has risen, and is opening his 
doors and windows, when a flying figure comes leaping 
toward him, flings open the house door, and falls pros- 
trate on the threshold. He picks her up, puts the pant- 
ing creature into a chair, and, in gasps, and incohe- 
rently, she tells her tale. It is brief — murder has been 
done at Sleaford’s. 

The man sets off, rouses some few of the neighbors, 
and starts for the house. On their way they meet the 
double sleigh holding the jaded sons and daughters of 
the house, and to them the tale is unfolded. Five 
minutes brings them to the farm. They hurry in, up 
stairs, and pause involuntarily at that closed door. 
Even jDan stands for a moment, afraid to see what 
is on the other side. 

“ Oh, go on !” crie.. ora, with a hysterical sob. 

Open the door, man,” says somebody ; “ it may 
not be as bad as you think.” 

He cbeys. A shocking sight meets their eyes. Th« 
signs of a struggle are everywhere ; the broken lamp, 
the charred floor, the overset chairs, and blood — every* 
If IMT* blood I It crept nwder the bed, it bat imewr' 


GEOFFEET HEAES A CONFESSION. 217 


ed the furniture ; it dyes to the hilt a long, curved, 
murderous-looking knife lying near. Prone on the 
floor, on his face, a man is lying — a big, broad-shoul- 
dered, burly man — his hands and clothes crimson with 
the terrible tide that besmears everything. 

“ It is father !” says Lora, with a terrible cry. 

They lift him up, and Liz falls backward at the 
ghastly sight, and faints dead away. His face is rigid 
and besmirched ; from his left side blood still flows in 
black, coagulated drops. It is the master of the house, 
destined never more to swear, or drink, or fight, or 
horsewhip, while his name is Giles. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

GEOFFEEY HEAES A CONFESSION. 

is the forenoon of the day after. 

Mrs. Abbott sits alone in her favorite 
sitting-room — a dainty apartment in white 
and gold ; a carpet like snow, covered with 
purple and yellow-hearted pansies ; chairs like ivory, 
upholstered in pale, creamy tints, that harmonize well 
with the calla-lily hue of the lady’s complexion. There 
are flowers in abundance — in pots, in vases, in crystal 
cups , they fill the air with summer fragrance. There 
are but few pictures, in heavy gilt frames, and these 
are portraits — her own, her son’s, her daughter’s, one 
or two world-wide celebrities, and one lovely, sunlit. 
Southern landscape. There are books everywhere, in 
Ohoioe bindings 5 m ppo piino ? 4riip#Fi«i pf 
W 



218 OEOPPEEY HEARS A CONPESSIOH. 


creamy silk and lace ; and last, but by no means leasts 
a fire burning brightly in the grate. 

M.s. Abbott herself, in a white cashmere morning' 
gown, trimmed with Valenciennes, sits back in th« 
puffy depths of a great chair, her book lying idly c?5 
her lap, her dark, dreamy eyes on the fire, her thoughts 
anxious and perplexed. Like all the rest of the world 
of Brightbrook, she is thinking of the Sleafords. 

It is not yet eleven, but ill news flies apace ; it was 
brought to Mrs. Abbott by Leo an hour ago. The 
servants never gossip in their lady’s presence, but they 
do not mind Miss Leo, and Miss Leo runs with the 
news to her mamma. For Joanna’s sake, a certain 
amount of interest attaches to these people, and deeds 
of violence and bloodshed like this are rare in this 
peaceful community. Some unknown man had visited 
Sleaford’s late last night, had had a quarrel with Slea- 
ford, had stabbed Sleaford. That is the vague version 
that has reached the mistress of Abbott Wood, and 
that has set her thoughts wandering painfully to a 
subject she would fain forget. 

She has been inexpressibly shocked by the girl’s 
conduct. She had hoped to do her so much good, to 
lift her above her surroundings — a doubtful sort of 
good, always — had hoped to refine and subdue her, 

had thought that task accomplished, and now ! 

She has heard the whole disgraceful story — how for 
little or no provocation the girl had set fiercely upon 
one of the young men, and laid open his head with a 
blow of a loaded whip-handle, how she fled to the 
woods, how she entrapped foolish young George Blake 
into running away with her, how she has added robbery 
to attempted murder, and gone to New York. 


GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION'. 


But the sequel is strangest, wildest of all ; it 
almost exceeds belief. When George Blake’s frenzied 
mother and maiden aunt rush up in pursuit of the 
fugitive pair, what do they find ? A deserted bride- 
groom ! What do they hear ? An incomprehensible 
story ! She has run away with him — yes ; but she has 
also run away from him ! When Blake, with his 
friend, reached the hotel some two hours after his 
quitting it, they found an empty room, and a lost 
bride-elect. Poor George, like a man demented, has 
been hunting the city ever since, but in vain. If the 
pavement had opened and swallowed her she could 
not more completely have disappeared. She has 
threatened suicide often — has she escaped Black’s 
Dam to find death in the North River? Mrs. Blake 
is jubilant, but hides her feelings, and returns with the 
tale to Brightbrook. 

And it is over this Mrs. Abbott is painfully ponder- 
ing, as she sits and looks at the fire. Geoffrey, too, is 
on the track ; he scouts the idea of suicide. He main- 
tains that Joanna must have been insulted and goaded 
beyond endurance. He has faith in her innate good- 
ness and gratitude. In running away from George 
Blake she has acted for his good. He does not, wili 
not, give her up. “ If she is above ground I will find 
her !” he says, in that quiet, inflexibly determined way 
of his ; but as yet even he has not obtained the 
faintest clew. 

Down in the servants’ hall two tall footmen stand 
aside with very grave faces, and whisper mysteriously. 
They know rather mare of the affair Sleaford than 
most people, but they have an excellent place, little to 
do, good wages, and they judiciously only whisper. 


220 GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION". 


Very late last night, in all that storm, the man Slea 
ford was here, and left a peremptory order for master, 
when master returned. Master rode home about 
eleven, was given that message, swore roundly at the 
giver, turned his horse, faced the sleet and wind, and 
rode off again. About two this morning he returned, 
pale as a corpse, drenched, frozen, staggering, stained 
with blood! Stained with blood — his vest spotted, 
one of his hands cut, his face bruised, as if in a strug- 
gle. All this is seen at a glance. Then he went to 
his room, locked the door, and has not been seen since. 
His man left his hot shaving-water and a cup of coffee 
in the dressing-room. He did not appear at missus* 
breakfast. It has a very ugly look ; the two men 
have reason to whisper gravely over it, and hold them 
selves apart. 

But the birds of the air carry news of bloodshed, 
It is being rumored already, in awe-stricken tones, 
through the village, who Giles Sleaford’s midnight 
visitor was. 

Mrs. Abbott throws aside her book at last, with a 
heavy, impatient sigh, and rises, and goes to a win- 
dow. She draws aside the draperies and looks out 
A storm of wind and wet is sweeping past ; the “Jan- 
uary thaw ” has set in in pouring rain. The landscape 
looks all blurred and blotted out, the sky black and 
‘ow, the trees twisting and rattling in the gale. Where 
ts that unfortunate Joanna, this wild winter day? the 
( ady thinks, with a shiver. Poor creature ! it seems of 
no use trying to do anything with this sort of people ; 
they are true to their own reckless natures, and under 
that light outer coating of yarnish are tanelesi 
rfokleiM to the eii4« 


GEOFFBEY HEARS A CONFESSION. 231 


As she stands and gazes at the drifting rain, fehc 
Bees coming through it the figure of a man. He a^ 
proaches the house — some one of the servants, she 
thinks. But a moment after there is a tap at the door 
and one of the tall men enters, looking flurried avd 
startled. 

“ Well?” his mistress says, in some surprise. 

“It’s — it’s a young man, ma’am,” the man stf-m 
mers, “ to see you, if you please. A young man b]f 
the name of Sleaford.” 

“ Sleaford !” she repeats the name, almost startled 
herself ; it has been in her thoughts all the morning 
so persistently, and is so associated with tragedy 

now. 

“ Yes, ma’am, he wishes to see you most particular, 
he says. It’s a matter of life or death.” 

“ To see me more and more surprised. “ Arc 
you sure you have not made a mistake ? Are you sur« 
it is not Mr. Abbott ?” 

“ He said most particular my missus. I put the 
question to him wasn’t it master, and he said no, Mrs. 
Abbott, and a matter of life and death.” 

“ Show him in.” 

She moves back to her chair before the Are, and 
the young man by the name of Sleaford is shown in. 
He casts cne careless glance around the beautiful white 
and gold boudoir, and stands, hat in hand, dripping, 
dark, strong, weather-beaten, a handsome, gypsy sort 
of young fellow, my lady thinks, not without a sort of 
admiration, as if he were a fine or a well-painted pic 
turesque brigand in a Salvator Rosa picture. 

“ You wished to see me ?” her slow, sweet, legaH 
loces break the silence. “ Will you sit down 


^ GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 


He 1 joks at the frail, pretty, white and amber 
and shakes his black head. 

^‘No, lady, I will stay but a minute. My name i« 
Judson Sleaford, my father was stabbed last night. 
He is dying to-day, and he has sent me to you.” 

He addresses her with perfect ease of manner 
entirely unembarrassed by his errand, her stately pres 
ence, or the splendors around him. 

“ Yes,” she says, wondering more and more, 
me ?” 

“ To you, lady — most particular to you. He didn’t 
say so, but I think he would rather Mr. Abbott knew 
nothing about it. He says it is a matter in which you 
are concerned, and he wants to make a dying confes- 
sion to your son.” 

“ To my son ?” 

To young Mr. Lamar. Mr. Lamar can tell you 
later. Is he at home ?” 

*'My son is in New York,” Mrs. Abbott replies, 
turning vary pale ; “ he is in search of Joanna.” 

Thaf'*s unlucky,” says Jud, with perfect coolness, 
“ because dad — I mean father — can’t hold out much 
longer, and he says it’s important. As well look for 
last year’s partridges as our Joanna — he won’t find 
her. Couldn’t you send for him, lady ? He could get 
a dispatch and be here in five hours.” 

** Certainly,” Mrs. Abbott says, “ if it is necessary 
But ” 

“Dad wouldn’t take all this trouble if it wasn’t. 
It’s of importance, you’d better believe, lady, and 
worth hearing, whatever it is. You’d best send for 
him, and tell him to look sharp, if le wants to see the 
old man alive. He’s sinking fast. The doctor says he 


GEOFFEEY HEAES A OONEESBION. 223 


would be dead now from loss of blood if he wasn’t as 
strong as five ordinary men.” 

“ I will send for him at once — at once,” the iad^ 
uays, rising ; “ but I cannot imagine ” 

She stops, looking pale and puzzled. 

“No more can I,” says Jud. “All the same, dad 
can’t die easy with it on his mind — so he says. I’ll 
tell him, then, the young gentleman will be telegraphed 
for, and will come ? Put it strong, please, lady, so 
that there may be no mistake.” 

“ He will come the instant he gets the dispatch,” 
Mrs. Abbott says, and Jud Sleaford, with a bow, de- 
parts. 

“ Come down at once. Go straight to Sleaford’s.” 

These are the words she writes and sends to the vil- 
lage by a mounted messenger, which flash over the 
wires to New York, and find Geoffrey rising from a 
midday luncheon. 

He knits his brows perplexedly as he reads — an odd 
message, signed by his mother. A moment later his 
face clears. It concerns Joanna — she has returned, or 
there is news of her. He looks at his watch — it wants 
an hour of train-time. He will get to Brightbrook at 
4.30, to Sleaford’s at 5. If Joanna is back, by fair 
means or foul, he will compel Giles Sleaford to give 
her up. His interest in the girl he has befriended is 
deep and strong — he can hardly understand its depth 
and strength himself. 

The dim afternoon is fast darkening into night, aa, 
by the swiftest conveyance he can find at the depot, 
he drives through the rainy woods to the Red Farra. 
All the rest of his life the memory of that drive never 
leaves him — it is like no other that has gone before, oi 


224 GBOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSION. 

that comes after. His whole life is changed from that 
hour. The picture of the desolate scene will nevei 
leave him ; in after years he starts from his sleep often, 
in distifbed dreams living it over again. It is always 
dark, that picture, with the melancholy drip, drip, 
of the rain, the forlorn trees, the desolate flats and 
marshes. It has been said that we die many times be 
fore we are laid in our coffin. Looking back, it always 
•eems to Geoffrey Lamar that on that evening he died 
first. 

He reaches the farmstead — a strange stillness and 
gloom rest upon that noisy household. He has crossed 
its threshold but twice before ; this is the third and 
last time. The thought of that somber red house can 
never return to him again without a thrill of the pain, 
and shame, and horror of this night. 

In the kitchen he finds the girls and their youthful 
handmaid, huddled together, a shrinking group. 

They have feared their harsh father in life, they 
fear him more in his grisly death. They will not go 
near his room : a superstitious dread holds them back ; 
death, and such dark death as this, appals them. Jud 
is nurse and companion. Dan has deserted the house, 
and hangs moodily about the premises. A chill strikes 
Geoffrey — something more than news of Joanna is here. 

“What has happened?” he asks. “Why have I 
been sent for, and told to come here ?” 

“Don’t you know?” Lora asks, in wonder. To her 
It seems as if all the world must know, as if it had 
happened months ago, instead of but a few houra 
“ Father’s been murdered, and has sent for you ” 

“ Four father — murdered !” 


eTOJTRET HEAES A CONFESSION. S35 


He stares as he pronounces the horrible word, jnite 
aghast. 

Murdered ! and sent for him 1” 

Oh I he ain’t dead yet,” the girl says, beginning 
to sob hysterically. “He can’t die, he says, until he 
sees you. But he is dying, and there is not a moment 
to lose. J ud said to call him as soon as ever you came. 
Liz, go and call him,” 

“Go yourself I” is Liz’s whimpering retort. “I — 
I’m afraid.” 

“ You go, Beck,” Lora says to the gill ; and Beck, 
possessing plenty of stolid stupidity, which stands in 
good stead of moral courage sometimes, goes. 

Jud appears directly. 

“ It’s lucky you’ve come,” he says. “ He won’t hold 
out till morning. He’s awake and ready to see you. 
Come up. Look out for the stairs. It’s dark, but 
dad, poor old chap, don’t want a light. Here ! come 
in.” 

The chamber of the tragedy is but dimly lit by two 
pale gray squares of twilight, bat it is suflioient to 
show the grayer face of the dying man. Geoffrey is a 
physician ; at a glance he sees that death is there. It 
is a question of very few hours. He is a ghastly sight, 
black-bearded, bloodless, with staring eyes, and gasp- 
ing breath. Some of the old fierce light lingers in these 
glazing eyes ; they kindle at sight of his visitor. 

“You go, Jud,” he says. “Til speak to this 
young gent alone.” 

The wonderful strength of the man is in hia Toiot 
yet — the old imperious ring in his tone. 

Jud obeys. 

“ If you want anything,” he says to Gbaffrey 
to* 


236 GEOFFREY HEARS A CONFESSIOIT. 

“ knock with your heel on the floor. I’ll go down and 
take a smoke, and I’ll hear you. There’s the stuff be 
takes, on the table. Don’t let him talk too much ; the 
doctor says ’tain’t good for him.” 

“ Will you go and hold your jaw ? ” interrupts tLe 
dying man with a glare. 

Jud shrugs his shoulders and goes, and Gleoffrey is 
alone with Giles Sleaford. 

4c ♦ ♦ « ♦ * 

Nearly an hour passes. 

Down stairs the group sit and wait. They wonder 
what their father can have to say — something about 
Joanna, they infer. Dan slouches uneasily in and out 
of the house, the girls cling together in silence. Out- 
side the night and rain fall, the wind sobs feebly. 

“ Show a light, can’t ye ? ” Dan growls, stum- 
bling in, and Beck obeys. 

But even the bright lamp cannot dispel the gloom, 
Vhe awe. In that upper chamber there is silence — no 
telegraphic boot-heel has summoned aid. Can they be 
talking all this time ? 

It must be awful dark up there,” Lora whispers. 
“ Jud ought to go with a light.” 

But Jud will not go until summoned, ‘‘if he 
knows himself,” he asseverates. And he is not sam- 
Vioned for still another half hour. 

It is nearly seven when the bedroom door opens, 
and a footstep slowly descends the stair. Very slowly, 
unsteadily, it seems, and then the door opens, and 
Geoffrey Lamar comes in. 

They start to their feet, one and all, at sight ot 
him. What has happened ? Is father — dead ? For 
death only should change any face as Geoffrey Lamar’c 


OIOVFBXT HFARS A CONFESSION. 227 


U changed. So white, so haggard, the eyes so wild, so 
vacant, like the eyes of a si 3ep- walker, fixed in a blank, 
sightless stare. 

“ Oh ! what is it ? ” they all cry out. Is father 
dead ? Is father dead ? ” 

His dry lips part, he makes an effort to speak, 
shakes his head, points upwards, and turns and goes. 
Still in that same blank way, as if dazed or stunned by 
a blow. The conveyance in which he came is waiting, 
but he never thinks of it ; he plunges on through the 
rain, across the sloppy fields and marsh land, under 
the dripping trees — straight on, with the blind, un- 
erring instinct still of the sleep-walker. 

And, strangest of all, he does not go home. He 
goes on to the village, to the hotel, asks for a room, 
and locks himself in. 

And then he falls, rather than sits, in a chair, 
covers his face with his hands, and so remains motion- 
less a long time. He is trying to tJiink, but his brain 
fs spinning like a top — heart, soul, mind are in con- 
fusion. His thoughts are chaos — no order comes. A 
great, nameless horror, of sin, and shame, and dark- 
ness, and ruin has fallen upon him. Past and future 
are blotted out — the present is only a hopeless whirl of 
sudden despair. He sits for a long time ; then he 
starts up, and begins pacing the room, as a madman 
might ; his teeth are set, his face blanched, his eyes 
full of infinite misery, his hands locked. Walking or 
sitting, he still cannot think. The blow has been too 
sudden, the agony too great. Later, he will think, 
until thought becomes almost insanity ; to-night he ia 
wild, distraught, master of himself no more. 

He sits again, starts up again, and walks until ex 


A LONG JOUENET. 


liausted. Then he flings himself down, his folded 
arms on the table, his face resting on them, with one 
great heart-wrung sob, and so lies, mute and prone 
And when morning dully and heavily breaks, it sc 
finds him. He has not slept for a moment the whole 
night through. 


CHAPTER IX 

A LONG JOUENEr. 

r night Giles Sleaford dies. 

A little group surrounds his bed — the 
)ctor, the clergyman, a magistrate, hh 
n Jud, and Dan just within ihe door 
And the last words of the dying man are these : 

‘‘Nobody done it. It was — a accident. He’t 
acted — all square with me — and — it sha’n’t be said— 
Giles Sleaford — played it — low down — on him. Pvt 

told the truth — to the young gent Nobody done 

it. I fell — on the knife. You — gents all — remembei 
that when Pm — toes up.” 

With many gasps he says this — the gray shade ol 
death on his face, its clammy moisture on his brow 
There is a prolonged death-struggle, the strong life 
within him fights hard, but the rattle sounds, he 
stiffens out with a shiver through all his limbs, and 
lies before them — dead. 

And John Abbott is vindicated I It is the doctor 
who brings the news to the master of Abbott Wood— 
the doctor, who is also the family physician of the 
Abbotts- He rides with a very grave face, yet curious 
iQ SM how the man will take it. Yes, the servant said^ 



4 LOWO JOURNEY. 


m 


dabioasly, h.8 master is in, but be doesn t kno\f 
whether he will see any one. Dr. Gillson scribbles a 
line or two, folds it up, sends it, and the result is he if 
shown at once to Mr. Abbott’s study. There, Mr. 
Abbott, unshorn and haggard, with blood-shot eyes 
and disordered dress, sits and looks at him with sullen 
suspicion as he comes in. 

** What is this message of yours ?” he demands, 
surlily. “ I am not well to-day. I did not wish to 
see any one. I ” 

“ I came from Sleaford’s,” interrupts the doctor, 
regarding him covertly. “The man Giles is dead.” 

“Dead !” John Abbott says. “Dead !” The last 
trace of florid color leaves his face, and leaves it per- 
fectly livid. “ Dead I” he repeats, with a dull, vacant 
stare. 

“ Dead !” reiterates Dr. Gillson. “ I have just left 
his death-bed. Mr. Abbott,” he says, his hand on the 
millionaire’s arm, “ it is known throughout the place 
that you were the man who visited him at midnight on 
the night before last !” 

John Abbott turns his inflamed eyes upon the physi- 
cian’s face, still in that dazed, vacant way. “Well?’’' 
he says, moistening his dry lips. 

“ It is known you had a struggle with him, that 
violent words passed. It is known that for years he 
has held some secret power over you. Pardon me for 
repeating all this, but it is public talk now in Bright- 
brook. You have been suspected of — killing Gil'S!* 
Sleaford.” 

« It — it isn’t true,” Mr. Abbott answers, still in that 
dull, slow way, so unlike bis usual furious manner ®veJ 
even trifles. “ I didn’t kill him.” 


230 


A LO^r6^ JOFENBT. 


the doctor says; “although y«ur own amr 
tion would not vindicate you. But he has.” 

“ What ?” 

“ On his death-bed just now, his last words wer« 
a vindication of you.” 

John Abbott gives a great gasp — whether oi 
amaze or relief the doctor cannot tell — stares at him 
a moment, grasps the arms of his chair, sits erect, and 
'waits. 

“ His last words vindicate you,” repeats the medi- 
cal man, emphatically. “‘Nobody did it’ — I repeat 
what he said — ‘it was an accident. I fell on the 
knife.’ Mr. Powers and the Rev. Cyrus Brown were 
both listening, as were also his sons. My dear sir, I 
congratulate myself on being the first to bring you this 
good news.” 

Dr. Gillson feels no particular regard for the man 
before him, beyond the regard that all well-constituted 
minds must feel for a man who can sign a big check 
■with the easy grace of John Abbott. He has signed 
more than one for the doctor. 

There is a moment’s deep silence — the blood comes 
back with a red rush to Mr. Abbott’s face. A carafe 
of water stands on the table ; he fills himself a full 
glass and drinks it off. Then he rises, thrusts his 
hands in his trousers pockets, and begins walking ex- 
citedly up and down. 

“ Have you told my wife this ?” are his first words, 
and the surly tone of his previous greeting has re 
turned. 

“ Certainly not, Mr. Abbott. I should think Mrs. 
Abbott would be the very last to hear anything of thii 


A LOirO JOUBI^EY. 


231 


disagreeable nature. It is hardly a topic itted for a 
delicate lady’s ears.” 

Mr. Abbott resumes his quick march, his forehead 
frowning, his glance sullen. 

“ Look here !” he says ; “ this must seem a fishy 
sort of business to you, and I know there has been a 
deuced deal of talk about it. Brightbrook is such a 
beastly talkative little hole, and every man makes Lis 
neighbor’s business his own. I knew Giles Sleaford 
years ago — ay, a round score of them, and in the past 
he did me some — well — services, that I haven’t forgot. 
No, it ain’t my way to use a dirty tool, and then fling 
it aside. I’ve befriended him, poor beggar, since he 
came here. And I was with him that night, by his 
own request, and we did have a dispc^te. He had 
something belonging to me — I wanted it, and he drew 
a knife. There was a brief struggle for the possession 
of the property — mine, mind you, by every right — and 
in that struggle his foot slipped, and be fell forward 
on the weapon. There is the whole story, so help me 
I don’t mind owning I’ve been uneasy about it, for ii 
ha hadn’t spoken before he died, things looked ugly 
for me. But he has spoken, you tell me, like a trump, 
and told the truth, by Heaven ! Well ! — and so poor 
Giles, poor beggar, is gone I Well, we must all go 
when our time comes, Will you have a glass of wine, 
doctor ? It’s rawish sort of weather, and the roads 
are beastly.” 

Dr. Gillson knows what the Abbott vintages are 
like, and accepts. Mr. Abbott rings, issues orders, and 
resumes his march. 

“ I’m glad you haven’t told my missis. She’s nev 
Tons, and^ as you say, it ain’t quite the topic for a lady 


A LONG JOURNEY. 


I hope she won’t hear anything of it. A Jian don’t 
want his family to know everything. And so poor 
Giles is gone I Well, well ! he was a desperate fellow 
in his time, and strong as an ox. It’s a little hole lets 
a man’s life out, ain’t it, doctor? Here’s the wine, 
doctor. Help yourself.” 

“ I saw young Lamar last evening,” the doctor re- 
marks ; “ fine young fellow that, and an honor to a 
noble profession. Capital port this, Mr. Abbott — will 
you try it yourself ?” 

“ Saw Lamar ? Saw Geoff ? No, did you though ? 
Didn’t know he was down. Yes, I’ll take a thimble- 
ful, my mouth feels parched to-day. Yes, a fine young 
fellow, as you say, doctor — no call to learn your busi- 
ness. I provide for him as if he was my son. No 
need for him ever to look at tongues, or feel pulses. 
But he would do it, sir. Amuses him, I suppose. 
This house will be his when I pass in my checks. I 
love that boy, sir, as if he was my own.” 

From this moment Mr. Abbott’s apirits rise, until 
they are at fever heat. He drinks his own wine, he 
snaps his fingers at imaginary foes, he clears the Red 
Farm from the rabble who infest it, he holds up his 
head, and feels he is a man again. He has never 
breathed quite freely in the lifetime of Giles Sleaford. 
It was like standing on a volcano, that might split 
open and vomit fire at any moment. And now Slea- 
ford has gone, and cleared liis character. “ Bully for 
old Giles ! ” is Mr. Abbott’s somewhat inelegant in- 
'w ard exclamation, his eyes sparkling, the fluid color 
deep in his vinous cheeks. Joanna, too, is gone — it is 
a blessed relief to be rid of both, lie has nothing tc 
fear now. 


A LONG JOUKNIT. 


289 


•* Even if they find them — them things,” Mr, AV 
bott muses, “ those loggerheads of boys won’t be able 
to make top or tail of ’em, and there were things no 
living soul knew but Black Giles himself. Tisn’t 
likely he told those louts of his. He bled me pretty 
freely in his lifetime, and he wasn’t the sort to be 
overburdened with family affection, or to care too 
much for them he left behind him. But I wish I had 
— I had those things.” 

He ponders over it a good deal, and the result is, 
he takes his courage in his two hands later in the day, 
and rides over to the house of death. A large and 
motley assemblage are there, indoors and out. There 
is to be a sort of wake,” of a somewhat festive char- 
acter too, for copious refreshments for the watchers 
are in course of preparation. But the great man 
of Brightbrook is met on all hands by such dark looks, 
and sullen and sinister glances, such angry, ominous 
silence, that he prudently does not press the matter 
that has brought him, but rides away again as he 
came. Dan Sleaford, in particular, eyes him with so 
much latent malevolence, that he breathes more 
freely, although no coward, when half a mile of marsh 
land lies between them. It only confirms him in his 
resolution, however, to sweep, without loss of time, all 
this evil-disposed vermin off his Und. 

Mrs. Abbott is reading a note when he enters hia 
own drawing-room, with a surpriaed and perplexod 
face. It runs : 

“ Bbightbeook House, Jan. 29, 18 — . 

** My dear Mother : I am pressed for time, an<l 
•o ihall not visit the house before returning to the 


234 


A L<W0 JOimiTBT. 


cky. An important matter calls me away fo.* a fen 
weeks, so do not be anxious if I am not with yen for 
some little time. Most affectionately, 

Geoffebt Lamak.** 

Such a strange note — so short, so curt, so incom- 
prehensible. To go without calling to see her, to be 
absent for some weeks, to say not one word about his 
summons to Sleaford’s, or what passed there. Mrs. 
Abbott sits fairly puzzled, and a trifle displeased. It 
is not in the least like Geoffrey, this brusqueness, this 
mystery. 

‘‘ Has Geoff come ?” Mr. Abbott asks, entering in 
high good spirits, red, bluff, breezy. 

She glances at him in surprise, folds her note, and 
puts it in her pocket. 

“ Geoffrey is not here. How did you know he was 
down ?” 

“ Oh ! old Gillson told me — met him last night at 
the station. You don’t mean to say, Leonora, he 
hasn’t been here at all ?” 

It is a token that Mr. Abbott’s spirits are at their 
highest, when he calls his wife by her name, or gives 
her the loving glance he does at this moment. And 
both name and glance from him are particularly odious 
to Mrs. Abbott. She rises coldly as he approaches. 

“ My son has not been here, Mr. Abbott. He did 
come down, but he has again gone.” 

She turns to leave the room, but the seigneur of 
Abbott Wood, in his new-born happiness, interposes. 

“Oh ! hang it all, Nora, don’t run away, as if 1 
was the plague ! Sit down and let us have a cozy 
talk, A man might as well be married to an icebergs 


A LONG JOtTBNEY. 


386 


blessed if he mightn’t. I don’t see you hardly fit»in 
one week’s end to t’other. No man likes to be kept 
ojff at arm’s length that way, blessed if he does. It 
ain’t nature. I don’t complain, mind you — I’m proud 
of you. You’re the handsomest woman, the best- 
dressed woman, the highest-stepping woman I ever 
see — dashed if you ain’t ! And all the men say so. 
And I love the ground you walk on. I wouldn’t have 
you different if I could. You suit me to a T ! Only 
don’t be so stiff and stand-offish all the time. Do sit 
down, Nora, and let us have a cozy chat.” 

“ You have been drinking, Mr. Abbott,” his wife 
says, in cold disgust : ‘‘ keep off ! Do not come near 
me ! I cannot talk to an intoxicated man.” 

“ No, I ain’t drunk — had a glass or two, but bless 
you, I ain’t drunk. I tell you, you’re a stunner, Nora, 
and I love you, by George I do, and I love your son, 
and half I have shall be his. There I I can’t say no 
fairer than that. It was the best day of my life, the 
day I married you ; only you are so high and mighty, 
and won’t sit down as a wife should, and have a 
cozy ” 

But Mrs. Abbott waits to hear no more of this 
tipsy, uxorious maundering. As he comes toward her, 
she swiftly leaves the room, retreats to her own, and 
locks the door. Leo is there drawing, and she looks 
up in alarm to see her mother’s white face, and burning 
dark eyes. 

She starts up. 

“ Mamma ! what is it 

Some vague resemblance to the man belcw looks 
At her out of Leo’s eyes, and she puts out hfc hands tc 
keep her off. 


236 


A LOUG JOURWEl. 


‘‘No!” she cries, “ do not! It is nothing.” Sh« 
sinks down and covers her face. “ Oh !” she thinks, 
with a bitterness that is greater than the bitterness ol 
death, “ what a wretch I am ! How richly I deser\ e 
my fate ! For his money I sold myself, degraded my- 
self ! Shall I never get used to my foul bondage ? 1 

try, I pray, I strive, but in spite of myself I am grow- 
ing to loathe that man.” 

4c >K 4c 4c He « 

Little more than a week later, and Geoffrey Lamar 
ij in San Francisco. Jaded, travel- worn, pale, he goes 
about the business that has brought him there, giving 
no time to sight-seeing, or study of life occidental. 
That business takes him to a church in the suburbs, to 
the search of a certain register, where he finds what 
he fears to find, what he has hoped he will not find. 
It takes him to still another and similar errand, and 
with similar result. He has been fatally successful in 
both quests. One more visit remains to be made, then 
he returns, with every hope of his life crushed out, it 
seems to him, forever. It is to a public building, a 
dingy brick edifice, with barred and grated windows, 
high spiked walls, and watchful sentinels, but, saddest 
of all prisons, a lunatic asylum. He sees the resident 
physician and states his errand, and the name of the 
person he has come to see. The doctor eyes him curi- 
ously, 

“ It is an odd thing,” he says, smiling, “ but you 
are the first visitor in thirteen years who has asked tc 
see that patient. Yes, she is here, and she is well, that 
is, physically. Mentally, of course ” 

The doctor taps his f ontal development, and Fhakea 
bis head. 


A LONG JOURITET. 


287 


“I* she a violent case?” Geoffrey asks. 

“ Oh, dear, no ; quite the reverse. Gentle as a child 
and. seemingly, as sane as yon or I, except at intervals. 
But, of course, it is all seeming. It is a hopeless case. 
She will never be any better.” 

“What do you know of her history?” 

“ What do you know of it ?” the doctor retorts. 
“ Pardon me, but I never betray trust.” 

“ I know everything. She has been here for fifteen 
years ; she has lost a child ; her brother placed her 
under your care for temporary aberration, thinking she 
would recover. She has not recovered. She grieves 
for her child, and it is part of her lunacy that she 
must wait here until that child — now grown up — comes 
for her. Her husband is a rich man. Your orders are, 
every care and comfort compatible with close confine- 
ment. Her name is Mrs. Bennett.” 

“All correct,” the doctor answers. “I see you 
know. But her child is dead. You are a relative, I 
presume ?” 

“ I am not a relative. I have been sent here by 
one. But you mistake in one point. Her daughter is 
not dead.” 

“ No ? You surprise me. I certainly was so in- 
formed. Mr. Bennett’s remittances from New York 
are regular as clock-work. She has every care and at- 
tention, as you will see. If you are ready, I will ac- 
company you now.” 

TTiey ascend some flights of stairs, traverse sundry 
corridors, and enter at last a pleasant, sunny little room. 
There a woman sits sewing. A carpet is on the floor, 
a canary is in a cage, some pots of roses and geraniums 


238 


A LONG JOITBNET. 


are in the windows, but the windows themselves art 
grated like the rest. 

A visitor for you, Mrs. Bennett,” the doctor says, 
cheerily, “ a young gentleman from the States.” 

Mrs. Bennett rises, and makes an old-fashioned 
little courtesy. She is a thin-faced looking woman, 
with dark, wistful eyes, and black hair, thickly threaded 
with gray. Once she must have been rather pretty, 
but that once was long ago. 

“I do not know you, sir,” she says, slowly scanning 
his features. “Perhaps you bring me news of my 
child ?” 

It is difficult to imagine her insane — so gentle, so 
collected are look and tone. 

“I do,” Geoffrey answers, with emotion, and he 
takes the poor creature’s hand. “Your daughter is 
alive and well, and I believe will come for you before 
long.” 

“I have been waiting a long time, a very long 
time,” the poor soul says, wiping her eyes. “ I get so 
tired sometimes, so tired, and then I think perhaps 
she will never come at all. And it is a little lonely 
here,” glancing deprecatingly at the doctor, “although 
everybody is very kind to me, very kind indeed. But, 
oh, I want my little Joan — my little Joan I” 

The pathos of her tone touches his heart. 

“Your little Joan will come, I promise you that, 
and very soon,” he answers. 

“ And will she take me away ?” with a wistful, tear- 
ful glance, “ for I want to go away. I have been here 
so long — so many, many years. I would like a change 
now. I never make a noise, do I, doctor ? nor make 
trouble, like the other people here. I ana very quiet. 


A LONG JOFRNET. 


289 


And I will do everything she tells me if she will only 
take me away.” 

She will take you away, I am sure of that.” 

“ I get so tired, you know,” she goes on, piteously. 
No one ever comes to see me. My husband is busy 
irorking, and sends money to pay for me, and, of 
eourse, he cannot leave his business to come. And 
Giles has gone away. Giles is my brother, but I am 
afraid of him ; he is cross, and he curses. So did my 
husband, but he was good to me. I have been here a 
long time, and I have been very patient, and now I 
want to go away, for I am tired of this house, and so 
many noisy people.” 

Geoffrey reassures her, and makes a sign to the doc- 
tor to go. Her plaintive voice, her sad, weary eyes, 
pierce his heart. They bid her farewell, and leave her 
wiping her poor dim eyes, and murmuring softly that 
she will be very good if J oan will only come and take 
her away. 

Three days later Geoffrey Lamar starts on his re- 
turn journey to New York. A great change has come 
over him. That old look of invincible resolution has 
deepened to gloomy sternness ; he has aged in three 
days — he looks ten years older than on the night he 
sat by Giles Sleaford’s death-bed. All the youthful 
brightness has gone — care-worn, haggard, silent, he 
sits the long days through, while the land whirls by 
him, seeing nothing of all that passes, hearing nothing 
of all that goes on. Wrapped in himself and his somber 
thoughts, thinking, thinking always — so the time wears, 
and at last the long overland journey is at an end, and 
he treads the familiar New York streets once more. 

He makes no delay in the city. What mtisf bt 


uo 


A LONG JOURNEY. 


done is best done qnickly. All his plans aie formed 
beyond possibility of change — new plans for a new 
life. The past is dead and done with, a wholly new 
existence must begin for him at once. 

Ho goes down to Brightbrook, and reaches the vil- 
lage late in the afternoon. The sunset of a sparkling 
winter day is paling its crimson fires, and tinging with 
its ruby glow the trees, the urns, the western windows 
of the great house. He enters the avenue on foot, and 
walks up under those noble trees with a quick, firm 
step. “For the last time,” he thinks, as he looks 
around. And it was to have been his — his home — this 
fair domain, this goodly inheritance. For its loss he 
feels no pang — a far heavier blow has fallen upon him. 
The loss of fortune can be borne — the loss of honor is 
all. And all is lost — even honor. 

He asks for Mr. Abbott, and is shown into the li- 
brary where that gentleman sits, perusing the evening 
paper and smoking a cigar. He smokes and drinks a 
great deal. At sight of his stepson he starts up, 
throws down the paper, turns with radiant face, and 
holdjB out both haiids. 

“ What — Geoff I Back? Dear old boy, how we 
have missed you. And where have you been all this 
little forever ?” 

He stands with those welcoming hands outstretched, 
i glow deeper than the glow of the sunset, streaming 
tl rough the painted oriel, deeper than the port win© 
b© drinks, on his rubicund face — the glad glow of 
welcome, Bht Geoffrey Lamar, pale, stern, avenging, 
dMiws back from those eager hands. 

“ No,** ho says, “ we have shaken hands for the last 
time. I itand in this house, and to you for the 


UBO'S MALL, g4l 

lait time. It Is the bitter blight and disgrace of my 
life, that I have ever spoken to you at all ! ” 

The man falls back from him, his hands drop, his 
eyes start, he stands staring stupidly at his stepson. 

“ What — what — what d’ye mean ? ” he stammers at 
last. 

“What I say. On his death-bed Giles Sleaford 
sent for me, and told me his story — and yours. I 
know the black secret that has bound you two guilty 
men together. I hold the papers that cost him his 
life. I have been to San Francisco, and have verified 
the proofs of your guilt. And J ohn Abbott, scoundrel 
and BIGAMIST, I have returned to denounce you /” 


CHAPTER X 

leg’s ball. 

HE last light of the fair, frosty day, gleam- 
ing in myriad hues through the stained 
glass, falls on the picture within the 
library — the darkly-polished floor, with its 
great rose-red square of carpet, its pictures, bronzes, 
books, and on the figures of the two men. On John 
Abbott, millionaire and magnate, sitting huddled to- 
gether in his arm-chair, hie face covered with his 
hands, his guilt brought home to him, unable to look 
for one second into the fiery eyes of Geoffrey Lamar. 
On Geoffrey Lamar, standing haughty and wrathful, 
with gleaming eyes, compressed lips, and knotted fore- 
head. On that high, pale brow the veins stand out, 
U 



LEO’S BALL. 


swollen and purple, with the suppressed passion witbU 
him. And yet, little has been said, and that Mttle in a 
tense, repressed tone, lower even than usual. 

It is only on the stage, perhaps, that people in these 
supremo moments of death and despair make long 
speeches, only in fiction that the dying lie among their 
downy pillows and make exhaustive confessions of 
romantic lives. In real life, in the hours of our utmost 
need, we are apt to find ourselves mute. 

John Abbott has not spoken one word. He has 
attempted no denial, no vindication ; he has fallen into 
his chair, and crouches there, crushed by the tremen- 
dous blow that has fallen upon him. Geoffrey speaks 
at intervals, in a harsh, unsteady voice, very unlike his 
own, but the fiery wrath that consumes him is so deep, 
so deadly, his hatred and abhorrence of this man so 
utter, that all words fail and seem poor and weak. 

“ I have little to say,” he says, in that low, concen- 
trated voice of passion. “ I was a child when the 
wrong was done. I am a man now, and I do not strike 
you dead before me, and nothing less can atone. This 
IS the last time I will see you or speak to you while I 
live ; the last time I will ever set foot in this accursed 
house. I go from you to my mother, to tell her the 
truth — the horrible, shameful truth, that may strike 
her dead while she listens. But if I knew it would, I 
would still tell her.” 

He breaks off ; all this he has said in pauses and 
gasps. He puts up his hand to his throat ; he feels as 
though he were strangling. For the cowering wretch 
before him, he neither moves nor speaks. 

“ If she survives the blow, she will go with me. If 
I know my mother you have seen her, too, for the last 


LKO’S BALL. 


243 


time in your life. For your wealth, your doubly-ao 
cursed wealth, she married you ! She has paid the 
penalty of that crime. She will renounce you and 
it within this hour. If she should not ” 

He stops, that strangling feeling of fury that he 
is repressing chokes the words he would utter. 

“ If she should not,” he resumes, “ she shall see 
me no more. But I know her. She will go with me. 
Leo, too — she is yours no longer. I will make a home 
for them, far from here, where your vile name will 
never be heard. I will search for Joanna — she, too, 
shall know the truth — shall know your crime — shall 
know her rights and her mother’s wrongs, and to 
her and God I leave vengeance. Do you think she 
will spare you, John Abbott ? Do you know the pen- 
alty of the crime you have done ? Six months hence, 
in a felon’s cell, condemned to years of labor, I fancy 
your millions will avail you little. I am willing that 
my name, stainless hitherto, should be dragged 
through the mire, so that you are punished. To your 
daughter, and to heaven, I leave our wrongs. I go 
now to find my mother.” 

“ Stay !” John Abbott says. He lifts his head, and 
even Geoffrey, in his whirl of rage and shame, is struck 
by the ghastliness of that face. His voice, too, is 
hoarse and guttural. “ Stay I I have no right to ask 
favors — I don’t ask any. But — don’t tell to-night.” 

Geoffrey stares scornfully a moment, then turns 
logo. 

“ I don’t ask it for myself — to be spared. I don’t 
want to be spared. But there is a party to-night — 
Leo’s ” All his words come thickly and with a slow 
sffort ‘‘ The house is full of people down from Now 


244 


LEO’S BALL. 


York — her friends and your mother’s. All is ready 
Spare the little one for one more night — only one 
I^et her be happy with her friends until to-morrow 
Come to-morrow — come as early as you like. It is al 
true, I deny nothing. Take them away. Only not 
to-night“~for little Leo’s sake !” 

He says it all in brief, broken sentences ; then his 
head droops, and he is silent again. 

Geoffrey stands a moment. For Leo’s sake ! That 
is a powerful appeal. And only until to-morrow. 
The house full of guests too ; the exposure would be 
horrible. And for Leo’s sake. Yes, he will wait. 

** For Leo’s sake,” he says frigidly, ‘‘ I will wait 
until to-morrow. To-morrow at noon I will send for 
my mother to the hotel. I enter this house no more.” 

He goes with the words, and the master of Abbott 
wood is alone. Alone ! with hell in his heart, with 
despair, and remorse, and agony, and loss, and love, 
and fear, all tugging at his heart-strings together. It 
has come — the crash he has always feared. The 
thunderbolt has fallen and riven his hearth. Giles 
Sleaford, in his grave, has risen to revenge his sister’s 
wrongs. 

The last yellow glimmer of the wintry twilight 
fades out in gray ; darkness falls on the world. Many 
feet pass his door ; a servant enters to light the gas — 
the library will be needed to-night. John Abbott 
stumbles past him in the dark, and goes to the room 
that is sacred to himself alone — the room called his 
study, where he sees his tenants, transacts business, 
signs checks, pays help, and smokes pipes. Here h« 
will be undisturbed by his servants, his wife, 
daughter, or their butterfly friends. 


LSO^S BALL. 


m 

This party of Leo’s is in honor of *a young South* 
em beauty, a friend of Olga Ventnor’s, on the eve ol 
her departure for Europe. It is called Leo’s ball, but 
in reality it is not merely a young girl’s party ; many 
distinguished people are present — her mother’s friends, 
besides the great folks of Brightbrook. The Ventnors. 
of course, are down — Olga from her finishing school, 
tall and imposing, even at sixteen, with proudly-poised 
head, delicate, lovely face, perfect repose of manner 
— more beautiful than her most sanguine friends ever 
predicted. A trifle imperious, certainly, as though she 
were indeed a Princess Olga, looking with blue, dis- 
dainful eyes on the slim-w’aisted, vslightly-mustached 
young dandies who adore her. They write sonnets to 
her eyes and eyebrows, her smile, her form ; they paint 
her picture ; they toast her at clubs ; they dream of 
her o’ nights ; they grow delirious with the promise 
of a waltz ; they kiss her gloves, her finger-tips ; they 
are ready to shoot each other for a flower from her 
bouquet — and she laughs at them all, with girlish, joy- 
ous indifference, and tyrannizes over them with right 
royal grace. That compact in which Frank Living 
ston is concerned has not been mooted to her yet, and 
the family conclave begin to have their doubts as to 
how it will be received. 

A young lady who has such pronounced opinions 
of her own at sixteen, as to the color and make of her 
dresses, and hats, and gloves, will be apt to have pro- 
nounced opinions, also, on the more important subject 
of a husband. Frank at present is abroad on a sketch- 
ing tour, it is understood, through Italy and Switzer 
land, and send# her long, racy letters by every mail 
But she lAughs at the letteis. as she does at the ador 


246 


LEO 8 BALL. 


era, atd flings them aside as indifferently. Whethei 
ahe walks in “ maiden meditation ” or not, she is oer« 
tainly “ fancy free.” To-night, in white silk embroi 
dered with pink rose-buds, with real pink rosebuds and 
lilies of the valley in her hair and corsage, it is need- 
less to say she is a vision of beauty. That goes with 
out saying at all times. 

Leo, too, in rose silk and illusion, looks like a rose 
herself, her bright black eyes shining after their old 
joyous fashion with the delight of the hour. 

The rooms are flooded with light, flowers are in 
profusion everywhere, the guests are numerous, the 
supper and band down from the city, and Mrs. Abbott 
in pearl moire and those fabulous diamonds that might 
rival Lady Dudley’s own — quite an ideal hostess for 
high-bred beauty and grace. Outwardly, that perfect 
repose seems above being rufflfed by any earthly con- 
tretemps^ but inwardly she is ruffled nevertheless. For 
Leo has just told her, with wide-open, wondering eyes 
that Geoffrey has been and is gone. 

“Impossible!” Mrs. Abbott says, incredulously. 
“ Why on earth should he do that ? There must ^ 
some mistake.” 

“No mistake, mamma ; Davis let him in. He 
went to papa in the library, stayed half an hour, and 
went away.” 

“ Without word or message to me ! And after six 
weeks of absence ! Oh, this is intolerable ! Geoffrey 
never used to act so. What can it mean ?” 

“ I don’t know, mamma,” Leo says ; “ it is very 
odd, certainly. Perhaps, hearing there was to be a 
party, he did not wish to stay. Bat it ia not a bit like 
Geoff.” 


LEO’8 BALL. 


‘‘Here is your father new.” 

A slight frown contracts Mrs. Abbott’s smooth 
forehead — her husband has given her to understand 
he will not put in an appearance at this party, and 

now She misses Joanna as much, perhaps, for 

this reason as any other — she was a most useful sheep- 
dog to keep this wolf at bay. These people are nearly 
all strangers to him — why should he want to join them ? 
It is his own house certainly, but 

“I wanted to see you a moment, Nora,” he says, 
approaching, and even she notes with surprise the 
livid, leaden pallor of his face, the trembling of his 
hands, the husky break of his voice, “ a moment alone.” 

“ There is nothing the matter ?” she demands, in 
sudden alarm. “ Geoffrey, it is nothing about him 

“It is nothing about him.” 

“But he has been here, and is gone. What does it 
mean ? You saw him — why did he not come to me ?” 

“ On account of this party. He’s coming to-mor- 
row — at least he intends to see you. I— I don’t feel 
well, Nora ; I am going to my room — the study. I 
shall stay there all night.” 

“Yes,” she says, indifferently, “you had better. 
You do not look well. Excuse me — I see a new ar- 
rival.” 

“ Shake hands, Nora, and say good-night.” 

She draws back from him, intensely annoyed. Has 
be been drinking more than usual? Shake hands with 
him before all these people ! What a preposterous 
idea ! She draws decidedly back. 

“There is no need of hand-shaking, Mr. Abbott. 
I have no wish to excite my friends to laughter- —not 
Viake a scene. You had better go to bed, as yon say^ 


34S 


LBO’S BALL. 


ADd as quickly as possible. You really look extremely 
ill, and are attracting the attention of the guests.’^ 

His hand drops ; he takes one last, long, look as s-he 
moves away to meet the new arrival. She is like a 
queen, he thinks — so stately, so graceful, so fair. 
Among all the women present, there is not another so 
regal. Then he turns away, and at a little distance 
encounters his daughter. 

“ Why, papa,” she exclaims, quickly, “ what is the 
matter? You are looking awfully pale — for you. 
Are you sick ? ” 

“ I ain’t well, Leo. I’m going to my room, the study, 
you know. I came to say good-night. That’s a 
pretty dress, my girl, and you look as fresh and pink 
as a rose. I’m glad to see you so handsome and happy. 
You — you are a little fond of your poor old dad, ain’t 
you, Leo ? ” 

“ Why, papa ” 

“ Oh ! yes, I know. I ain’t like your mother, oi 
those heavy swells around, but I’ve been a good father 
to you, now, haven’t I ? I don’t think I ever refused 
you anything in my life, now did I ? And you’d — you’d 
be sorry if anything happened me, now wouldn’t you ? ” 

Leo looks at him anxiously. The same thought, 
alas ! crosses her mind as her mother’s — has he been 
drinking ? Mr. Abbott is apt to be maudlin in hia 
cups, so his pathos is always open to doubt. 

‘‘ You had better go to bed, papa,” says Leo, as her 
mother has done. ‘‘You look very badly. And per- 
haps you had better send for Dr. Gillson.” 

“ I don’t want Dr. Gillson, my girl. I know what 
you’re thinking of, but it ain’t that. I’m not drun)^ 
Good-mght, little one — kias your pjd da4.” 


Leo’s ball. 


340 


Mis§ Leo’s pink lips touch daintily the cold cheek 

her father. Then she, too, flits away to meet her 
partner for the first dance. Mr. Abbott is not a sub- 
ject to be sentimentalized over, even if he is a little 
pale. Much drinking has alienated from him even the 
respect and affection of his daughter, although she is 
fairly fond of papa, too. But it is not in the same way 
or degree in which she is fond of mamma and Geoff. 

Mr. Abbott goes to his study, followed by the 
crashing, brilliant music of the band. Ladies and gen- 
tlemen glanoe at him, and wonder who he is. His face 
strikes them all with a sense of tragedy and discord, 
that jars upon the scene. But he disappears and is 
forgotten. He shuts himself in, but he does not shut 
out the triumphal swell of the music, nor the sound of 
the dancers’ feet. The joyous tumult of the ball 
mocks him in his seclusion. He has shut out the world 
with its brightness, its gladness, its joyous life, and the 
world goes on just as merrily without him. It comes 
well home to him in this hour. He has been something 
— he is nothing — he will never be anything in this 
world again. 

He sits down and has it out. It does not require long 
thinking. To-night ends everything. To-morrow he will 
stand alone, wife, son, daughter, home, friends — gone. 
And he has loved them all. After to-morrow all who 
have known him will fall off from him, his name will be a 
by-word and a reproach, his memory a thing to be exe- 
crated. He will be denounced — is the girl J oanna likely 
to spare him ? There will be a trial through which his 
wife, his daughter will be dragged, and their name de- 
filed. There will be the sentence — the prison walls, 
tho prison dress, the labor, the prisen fare» Ihe 

n* 


250 


LXO’S BALL. 


prison life, the chain, the lash, the prison death — that 
will be the story. All his wealth is powerless here 

He goes to a drawer in a desk, unlocks it with slow 
deliberation, and takes out one of the articles it con 
tains. It is a revolver, a handsome weapon, silver- 
mounted, perfect of its kind. He examines the cham- 
bers, reloads carefully, and with a face that seems cut 
in gray stone. And still, as he labors at his ghastly 
task, the dance music swells and sinks joyously, the 
sound of the dancers’ flying feet, the echo of theii 
laughter reach him, and he listens as he works. Then 
he goes to the window, opens the closed shutter, and 
looks out. 

It is a lovely night, following a lovely day. The 
deep blue sky a-sparkle with frosty stars, the moon 
flooding lawn, and terrace, and copse with crystal 
light. Never has Abbott Wood looked more beauti- 
ful, never has he loved it so well. He is taking his 
last look at it, at the cold, far-off, shining sky, at the 
fair white earth, at his home that has been his pride 
and boast so long. He is hearkening to the sweet 
crash of the band — the wild music of a waltz will be 
the last sound of time he will take into eternity. 

For the end has come. The wages of sin — death 
— is here ; the coward’s cure for all ills of earth — sui- 
cide — is at hand. He will never see the scorn, the 
hatred in his wife’s eyes, the shrinking horror of his 
daughter’s face, the abhorrent gaze of al! men. For 
him there will be no felon’s cell, or lash. His sin has 
found him out, and the retribution is now. 

He lifts the pistol. A gay burst of laughter just 
outside his door greets him on the moment. Over that 
merry peal, over the last soft strain of the waltzers. 


AFTER THAT NIGHT. 


m 


Another sound breaks — a dreadful sound. But it 
reaches no ear, and only the solemn eyes of the stars 
look into that silent room. 


CHAPTER XL 

AFTER THAT NIGHT. 

T is close upon noon of the next day. Sun- 
shine floods the charming breakfast- room 
of Abbott Wood, glints on crystal, on 
silver, on egg-shell china, and on a group of 
gay guests, on the lady of the house in exquisite morn- 
ing-robe and cap, on her pretty daughter in amber 
cashmere, rich with golden floss embroideries. The 
guests have had a brief nap, a cozy cup of tea, and 
now “booted and spurred,” are saying farewell to 
I heir gracious hostess and her bright little daughter. 
The party last night was delightful. All are departing 
ia flne spirits, making appointments for the coming 
summer and country meetings. They go at last, and 
with a tired sigh Mrs. Abbott sinks into her chair. 
She is not very strong, and last night’s fatigue tells 
upon her after her quiet life. Besides, she is worried 
about her son. Here it is high noon, and he has not 
put in an appearance to explain his singular conduct. 
As she sits musing about it her maid approaches with 
A note. It is from the culprit, and is very brief. 

“ Bsightbsook Hottss, Thursday Morning. 

“ Mt Dsab Mothxb ; — I am especially anxious U 



m 


AFTER THAT NIGHT. 


»ee you, but I cannot go to Abbott Wood, so, I sup 
pose, I must ask you to meet me here at your earliest 
convenience. I will remain in all day expecting you. 
Love to Leo. Ever affectionately, 

“G. V Lamab.” 

Mrs. Abbott knits her brows in direst perplexity 
over this enigmatical note. “Cannot go to Abbott 
Wood!” But he was here last night. “Must ask 
you to meet me here ! ” How very odd ; how ex- 
tremely unpleasant. What can it mean ? Is Geoffrey 
losing his senses ? She will go at once and find out. 
Her hand is on the bell, when her maid again hurries 
in, pale, scared, horror-stricken. 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Abbott ! Oh ! madam ! something 
awful has happened !” The girl drops into a chair 
panting with sheer affright. “ Oh I ma’am, I don’t 
know how to tell you.” 

Mrs. Abbott looks at her a moment and grows 
white. 

“ Is it— anything about my son ?” she asks, almost 
in a whisper. 

“Mr. Geoffrey? Oh I no, ma’am, nothing about 
him. It’s master, please. Oh ! how shall I tell you i 
It’s dreadful — dreadful !” 

Mrs. Abbott draws a long breath, and stands ereet 
again, pale, composed, a trifle haughty. There it 
nothing about Mr. Abbott that can very greatly 8ur» 
prise or shock Mr. Abbott’s wife. 

“ Do not be an idiot I” she says, sharply. “ What 
is it ? Say what you have come to say, and go. I am 
going out.” 

“ Oh I Bo, ma’am, you can’t go out to-day. Ok I I 


AFTER THAT KIGHT. 


m 


beg pardon, but you don’t know. Prepare yourself — 
oh I please do — for — for the worst. Mr. Abbott if 
very — very ill. 

Mrs. Abbott recalls his looks, his incoherent speech 
last night, and slightly shrugs her graceful shoulders 
It has happened to Mr. Abbott to be very — very ill 
before, of — delirium tremens ! 

‘‘ Have you sent for Dr. Gillson ?” she says, coldly, 
and moving away as if to go. 

“ Oh ! my dear lady, wait ! It — it isn’t what you 
think. Dr. Gillson was here hours and hours ago, but 
he can do nothing. Nobody can. Oh ! ma’am,” with 
a burst, “ master’s dead !” 

** Dead !” Mrs. Abbott repeats the solemn word, 
awe-stricken, and gazes incredulously at the girl. 
“ Dead !” that strong, burly, red-faced man. The 
thought of death in connection with her husband has 
never come near her — he and the idea have been so 
entirely antagonistic. “ Dead !” she repeats for the 
third time, mechanically, in slow, wondering tones. 

“ Davis, his man, found him early this morning, 
ma’am,” the girl says, with a hysterical, feminine sob, 
“ and sent for the doctor at once. But it was too late. 
He had been dead many hours then. The doctor knew 
the house was full of people, and would not let Davis 
tell until they were gone. He is in his study still, 
ma’am, where they found him, a-lying on the sofa, 
dressed. And, oh I if you please, there’s to be an in- 
quest.” 

Mrs. Abbott sits down, feeling suddenly sick and 
faint. A passion of remorse sweeps over her ; she 
covers her face with her hands, and her tears flow 
Idle tears, no doubt — ^not tears of sorrow certainly 


AFTEB THAT NIGHT. 


M4 

She has never cared for this dead man — she committed 
a sin against herself and her womanhood by marrying 
him. Life by his side has been but “ dragging a length* 
ening chain.’^ She has held him in utter contempt, 
and has let him see it. But “ he who dies pays all 
debts and now, for all this, a very passion of pain, 
of remorse, of humiliation, fills her. And, last night 
he came to her in some great need, and she rebuffed 
him I Now he is dead ! But moments of weakness 
are hui moments with this woman, whose life for many 
years has been one long, bitter self-repression. She 
lifts her head and looks at the girl again. 

“It is very sudden — it is dreadfully sudden. Was 
it — apoplexy ?” 

The maid resumes her weeping as her mistress 
leaves off. It is not sorrow on her part either — simply, 
the shock has unnerved her. 

“ Oh ! ma’am — Mrs. Abbott — that is the worst 1 
N^o, it isn’t apoplexy — is isn’t anything natural. It 
w as suicide !” 

“ Suicide !” The lady recoils a step in pale horror, 
and puts out her hands. 

“ Oh ! dear lady, yes. That is the awful part. It 
was suicide. He shot himself. While everybody 
was dancing and enjoying themselves last night, he 
went into his study and done it. Davis found him all 
cold and stiff this morning — shot through the head. 
Oh, dear I oh, dear ! Oh ! Mrs. Abbott, don’t faint ! 
Oh I here is Mr. Geoffrey. Oh ! thank the Lord ! Mr. 
Geoffrey, sir, come and say something to your ma I” 

For it is Geoffrey who hurries in, pale, excited, 
with startled face, and hastens to his mother’s side. 

My dearest mother, the news has bat just reached 


AITTSB THAT NIGHT. 


me. Dr. Qillson brought it, and I have hastened here 
at once. It is very shocking. Mother, do not give 
way 80 ! Mother, mother, what is this ?” 

“ I have killed him,” she whispers, and her head falls 
on his shoulder, her arms encircle his neck, and she 
lies white and speechless with horror and remorse. 

“Nothing of the sort !” her son says, energetically. 
“Mother, listen to me — I know what I am saying — 
you had nothing to do with this tragic death. It was 
I. I saw him last night — a terrible secret of his past 
life has been made known to me, and I came and 
accused him of his crime. I threatened him with 
public exposure. This is the result. I do not regret 
my part in it; I simply did my duty; I would do it 
again. I repeat — with this ghastly ending you had 
nothing to do. And, mother, he deserved his fate; 
he merits no pity — from you. He was a villain — dead 
as he is — I say it ! Look up, shed no tears for him, 
except in thanksgiving that you are free.” 

All this the maid hears as she hurries from the 
room. She sees the stern, white face of the pitiless 
young Rhadamanthus, and wonders what nameless 
crime it can be poor master can ever have done. 

>|c « 4c « 4t ♦ 

Four days later they bury the master of Abbott 
Wood in that vast gray stone vault over in Bright- 
brook Cemetery — that gray mausoleum bearing tht 
name Abbott over its gloomy front, and which, until 
time ends, John Abbott will occupy alone. 

It is a very large and imposing funeral, and Mrs. 
Abbott, in trailing crapes and sables, looks pale but 
composed, and handsomer than ever. Leo’s tears, 
people note, are the only tears that fall. There has 




AFTEB THAT NIGHT. 


been an inquest, but no cause, except that useful and 
well-worn one — temporary aberration of mind — can be 
assigned for the rash deed. 

Business has summoned Geoffrey Lamar to the city 
©n the day before, and among the melancholy cortege 
he is conspicuous by his absence. All the Ventnors are 
down to console the widow and orphan. But Mrs. 
Abbott’s high-bred calm stands her in as good stead 
now, as in all the other emergencies of life — consola- 
tory platitudes would simply be impertinences here. 
As yet she knows nothing, only — that she is free 1 
After a very dreadful and disgraceful manner truly, 
cut still — free. 

They bury the dead man, and his will is read. The 
widow is superbly dowered, her son inherits Abbott 
Wood and half the great fortune the millionaire has 
left. Servants and friends are handsomely remembered. 
No fairer or more generous will was ever made. 

People begin to find out his good points ; he was 
rough-and-ready, certainly, says Brightbrook, but as 
off-hand, whole-souled fellow, free with his money al- 
ways, and if he swore at a help ” this moment, h€ 
was just as ready to tip him a dollar the next. He 
wasn’t such a bad sort of man. Brightbrook owes 
him everything — he has made the place, built churches, 
schools, town halls, jails, almshouses, laid out the park, 
donated the fountain, erected model cottages for his 
tenants, was a capital landlord, if he teas a little strict. 
So, in spite of the suicide, he is after a manner canon* 
ixed in the village. 

As to the death itself — people rather shirk that>- 
he did not lire happily with hie wife — she and her son 
looked down upon him from first to last. And bf 


AFTER THAT NIGHT. 


251 


drank to ezcess. And he had had D. T., and in one 
of these fits the deed was done, and thai was all 
8*V out it. 

The day after the funeral Geoffrey Lamar returns. 
He wears no mourning, and settled sternness and 
gloom rest on his face. The first inquiries he makes 
are for the Sleafords, and he learns the Sleafords are 
gone, driven away, the farm deserted, the house empty. 
Lora has married a love-stricken butcher, and gone to 
live in the next town ; Liz has drifted away to the city, 
the boys have disappeared, loneliness reigns at Slea- 
ford’s. 

The Red Farm is for rent, Geoffrey rides over and 
looks at it — already it has the air of a deserted house, 
already desolation has settled upon it, already the 
timid avoid it after nightfall, already it is hinted Slea- 
ford “ walks.” 

It is very strange that these two men, connected in 
some way in their life-time, should so quickly and aw- 
fully follow each other to a violent death. 

“ They were ugly in their lives,” says a ghastly wit 
of the village, “and in death they are not divided.” 

No news of Joanna as yet, and of late the search 
has rather been given up. George Blake, poor faith- 
ful, foolish fellow, still mourns and searches, Geoffrey 
proposes soon to recommence, but he has another and 
sadder duty first to fulfill. He has yet to tell his 
mother the frightful truth, that she has never for one 
hour been John Abbott’s wife — that Leo is “ nobody’s 
child,” that neither he nor one of them have any 
shadow of rightful claim on all tnis boundless wealth 
the dead man has left 

As the night falls of that day, that day ne^er to 




AFTER that NiuHT. 


be forgotten in their lives, he tells her. They sit alone 
in her darkening sitting-room, with closed doors, look- 
ing out at the falling Vv inter night, the red gleam of 
the fire flickering in the snow, and gold, and amber of 
the bijou room. 

Infinitely gentle, infinitely tender are his word 
ke holds her hands, he breaks it to her, this revelati 
that is to drag her pride in the very dust. For a lo 
time it is impossible to make her comprehend, the h 
ror is too utter — she cannot, she will not take it in. 

Then suddenly a shriek rings through the housw 
another and another, and she starts up like a woman 
gone mad — she breaks from him, she beats the air with 
her hands, her frenzied cries resound. For the mo- 
ment she is mad. What was John Abbott’s suicide, a 
hecatomb of suicides, to such horror as this ! Then 
she sways and falls — almost for the first time in her 
son’s knowledge of her — headlong in a dead faint. 

After that, there are weeks, that in all the future 
time are blank. 

She lies very ill, ill unto death, frantic, delirious, 
burning with fever, talking rapidly, wildly, incoherent- 
ly ; shrieking out at times that she will not believe it, 
that she cannot believe it, that John Abbott, with tha^ 
pistol hole in his head, is pursuing her, and that Geof- 
frey is holding her until he comes up. 

Her ravings are continuous, are frightful. Night 
and day her son is beside her ; Leo is kept out of the 
room by force — it is too shocking for her to see oi 
hear. Every one, doctors included, think she will die ; 
but her superb, unbroken health hitherto saves her 
life now. 

Slowly the fever subsides, slowly iife and reason 


AFTEB THAT KIOHT. 


359 


come Sack, and pale, spent, weak as a babe, irhite at 
a snow spirit, she looks out one May day, and sees the 
green young world, the jubilant sunshine, the sweet 
spring flowers once more. 

In two or three weeks she is to be taken away — for 
her health. Abbott Wood is to be left in charge of 
Mrs. Hill and one or two of the servants. Mrs. Ab- 
bott, her son, and daughter may be absent for years. 
After all, says Brightbrook, that cold, proud woman 
must have cared a little for her plebeian husband to be 
stricken with fever in this way by the shock of his 
death. And Brightbrook has thought her especially 
cold and heartless at the funeral. So easy it is to be 
mistaken. 

Early in June they depart. Nothing is said to Leo 
— time enough to tell her later, and then only part of 
the miserable whole. She must learn that they are 
poor, of course, that another claimant with a better 
right exists for Abbott Wood, that they must look to 
Geoffrey and his profession now for their support. 

For it is needless to say that neither mother nor 
son can touch one penny of that man’s money — the 
money that is rightfully Joanna’s. They are not going 
abroad to travel, as all the world thinks ; they are 
going to a little house in one of the suburbs of New 
York for the present, while Geoffrey begins his new 
life of hard labor, heavily handicapped in the race. 

For obvious reasons his mother retains the name ol 
Abbott, loathsome to her ears, but Leo must be con- 
sidered first now. No one — not even the Ventnors — 
are to know of them or their plans ; that world and 
all in it has gone forever ; nothing but poverty, seclu* 
•ion, anguish, shame remains. 


^lFTEB that night. 


m) 

For the Ventnors — Olga finds Jt very lonely, tnat 
vacation at the pretty rose draped villa, and mourn® 
disconsolately for her friends. She is nearly seven- 
teen now — “ a fair girl graduate, with golden hair,” 
glad that the thralldom of her fashionable school h 
over. But this fall and winter she is to go on, under 
the best masters, with music, painting, and languages 
Jive very quietly at Brightbrook, and early in April start 
with papa and mamma for that two years’ European trip. 

Some American heiresses have lately been marrying 
brilliantly abroad — marrying both fortune and title — 
and every day Frank Livingston’s chances grow fewei 
and farther between. His mamma’s anguish breaki 
out whenever she thinks of it. She writes him agonized 
appeals to meet the Ventnors, and try, try, try witl 
Olga, before one of those all-fascinating British ofiicen 
and nobles carry off the prize. But Frank, smoking 
sight-seeing, church-visiting in Rome, seeing statuary 
and paintings, and frescoes, a great deal, going t<. 
cozy little artist reunions, sketching and painting 
after a desultory fashion, and having a good time 
does not concern himself very greatly about his fair 
far-off cousin. Art is his mistress at present, storiet 
Rome the idol of his heart, his big brown meerschaunc 
rather more to him than all the heiresses and beautie. 
in wide America. If Olga has a mind, and is pleasec 
to approve of him when next they meet, he has nt 
objection. If not — he shrugs his shoulders, and humi 
that couplet that has consoled so many when th% 
grapes were sour and hung beyond reach, 

“If she be not fair to me, 

What care I how fair she bet” 

o a • a « o 


AFTER THE STORT ITC^DED. 


261 


And Dviw this record has come back to the begin- 
ning — to that wet October evening when Miss Vent- 
nor drove past the Red Farm in the pony carriage, 
and pointed it out to her friend. Giles Sleaford i« 
dead, Lora is married, Liz has gone cityward, the 
“boys” have disappeared, Joanna has run away with 
George Blake, and is not to be found, Sleaford’s is a 
“ haunted house.” At Abbott Wood silence and lone- 
liness reign. It, too, is a deserted mansion. Its mas- 
ter has died a tragic death, Mrs. Abbott, Leo, Geoffrey, 
are abroad, traveling for health and forgetfulness. 
At Ventnor Villa Olga practiees, sings, paints, reads 
French, German, Italian, rides, drives, blooms a rose of 
the world, 

“Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky.” 

And so, with sweet, slow voice, she tells her friend, in 
brief, this wet October night, the story of tha 
Sleafords. 


PART THIRD. 

CHAPTER L 

AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 

ND now, my dearest Hilda, having nar- 
rated all the incidents of the voyage, I 
propose to answer your very artful ques- 
tion about a certain person. Well, yes, 
le heau cousin, as you term poor Frank, is still here, 
still hovering as the moth around the flame, to quote 



162 


AFTEB THE STORY ENDED. 


yonr rather hackneyed simile. He followed lb down 
here from New York, a week ago, and is poor mamma’s 
cavalier servant, and to me, the most devoted of 
friends and cousins. Friends and cousins, I repeat 
You need not smile — he will never be more. All that 
you say of his good looks, and charming manners, and 
sunny temper, I admit. Still looks, and manners and 
temper, are not all that one requires in a husband. 
You perceive I put your delicately-vailed hints into 
plain English. I am not a sentimental person. I read 
my Tennyson, and my novels, and dimly, and as in a 
dream, I realize what it is all about — this grand pas- 
sion writers make the burden of their song. But I 
have never felt it, and for Frank Livingston I never 
will. I like him too well ever to love him. And yet, 

my Hilda, I have my ideal ” 

The pencil — she had written this with a slender 
golden trinket, suspended from her chatelaine — pauses 
here, and the writer looks out before her with dreamy 
azure, half-smiling eyes. She sits on the low sea wall 
of Abbott Wood, her sketch-book on her lap, and 
scribbles, on thin foreign paper, this letter. The sea 
lies below her, dimpling and sparkling in the lovely 
light of a June afternoon. A great willow bending 
over the wall droops its feathery plumes nearly to her 
fair head. Her hat is on the grass beside her, she 
has been sketching, but nothing in the view is love- 
lier than herself. She sits here, a tall, slender, most 
graceful figure, dressed in light muslin, her pale golden 
hair plaited about her head. There is not a touch of 
brown in the perfect tinting of that pale gold, and 
her eyebrows and lashes are fairer than her hair. Hei 
eyes are really wonderful in their limpid sapphire blue 


AFTEB THE STOEY ENDED. 


Her complexion is colorless, but has the vivid vrarmtb 
of first youth and perfect health. A little gold cross 
clasps some creamy white lace at the throat, a white 
cashmere wrap, embroidered in gold, lies with her hat 
As she sits there, she is a vision of radiant youth arc 
dazzling blonde beauty. 

She sits for a little, watching with that misty, far 
off look the tiny waves, slipping up and down the white 
sands, then she takes up her pencil and resumes. 

“ I have my ideal, and he is not in the least like 
Frank. Beauty shall by no means be an essential, nor 
a perfectly cloudless temper either — we might weary 
of perpetual sweetness and sunshine. But, oh ! my 
Hilda, he shall be noble, he shall be capable of self- 
sacrifice, he shall be a king among men to me. He 
shall be above me in all ways ” 

A second time she breaks off, this time she 
crumples up the flimsy sheet of perfumed French 
paper, and thrusts it into her pocket. For a step 
comes quickly down the path behind her, and a man’s 
voice sings, as he comes, with mellow sweetness, “ lia 
Donna e mobile.” She glances round, half petulantly 
as he draw's near. 

“ You are like a shadow,” she says, in a tone that 
suits the glance ; “ like a detective on the trail. How 
did you know I was here ?” 

‘‘Don’t be cross, Olga,” says Frank Livingston, 
throwing himself on the grass beside her. “ How can 
I tell ? Some spirit in my feet — how is it Shelley 
goes ? — led me to the charmed spot. What are yov 
doing — sketching ?” 

“I came with that design, but 1 believe, ua'ikei^ 
it may sound — have been thinking.” 


264 


AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 


Ah ! dare I hope — 

‘‘No, Frank, it was not of you, so do not put Oh 
that complacent look. Did mamma tell you to bring 
me norae ?” 

“ Your mamma Is asleep, my dearest Olga, and does 
not need you in the least. Do you know, I find it 
difficult to realize after all our wanderings that we are 
home once more. And here I This place seems 
haunted. The last time I was here was with Geoffrey 
Lamar.” 

He takes off his hat, «nd the soft sea wind stirs 
his dark curly hair. It is a new Frank Livingston, 
bronzed, bearded, mustached, muscular, improved 
almost out of knowledge by years, and travel and 
cultured association. He looks handsome as a latter- 
day Adonis, in his gray tweed suit, and with a dash 
of his old Bohemian insoucianGe upon him still. 
Lying here with the flickering sunshine sifting through 
willow plumes on his upturned face and uncovered 
head, he is wonderfully good to look at, and the half 
smile comes back into Olga Ventnor’s eyes as they rest 
on him 

“You look like a picture as you lie there, Frank,” 
she says, in an amused tone. “ Do not stir, please — I 
want to sketch you You are a thing of beauty and a 
joy forever, when you fall into picturesque attitudes, 
and hold your tongue. You spoil everything when 
y >u open your mouth. You ought to go through life 
posing, and never destroy the illusion by speaking a 
word. I shall send this to Hilda Stafford in my next 
letter. Do you know, Frank, she admires you im- 
mensely ?” 

“ Lady Hilda does me much honor,” says Living- 


A-FTER THE STORY ENDED. 


26 ff 


8ton, composedly. “ You, too, my dear cousin irith 
your more than doubtful compliments. The roie of 

barber’s block which you so kindly assign me ” 

“Turn a hair-breadth this way,” interrupts Miss 
Yentnor, “ and please be silent. I never can sketch 
and talk. I will have you in black and white in a 
second, and I know Lady Hilda will wear you next 
her heart.” 

Livingston laughs, but with a vexed look, and 
obeys. His blue eyes, very like Olga’s own, rest on 
the lovely face above him, with a look Olga Ventnor 
has seen in the eyes of many men before to-day, and 
which certainly, in the present case, stirs her pulses 
no more than if Frank were her pet Spitz dog. It is 
a face that can be very mutinous and imperious, as 
he knows to his cost, a face that can be as exasperat- 
ing as it is alluring, and that is saying much. Some- 
thing akin to irritated impatience and pain stirs within 
him as he looks. 

“As you sit where lusters strike you, 

Sure to please. 

Do we love you most, or like you, 

Relle Marquise ? ” 

he quotes, under his breath. 

“ I told you not to talk I ” says Olga, austerely ; 
“ but a talker you are or nothing, my poor Frank. 
There ! I think that will do. How Hilda will thank 
me in her secret soul for this treasure ! ” 

A saucy smile dimples the perfect mouth, the sap- 
phire eyes glance down laughingly at the figure on the 
grass. But Frank, still gazing, is absorbed in hit 
poem. 


AFTER THE SIORY ENDED. 


EOO 


You had every grace in heaven, 

In your most angelic face, 

With the nameless finer leaven, 

Lent of blood and courtly race ; 

And was added too, in duty, 

Ninon’s wit, and Bouffler’s beauty, 

And La Valliere’s ‘ Yeux CalmM 
Followed these. 

And you liked it when they said it 
On their knees, 

And you kept it, and you read it, 

Belle Marquise I ” 

“ The words must have been written for you, I 
think —you fit the portrait — fair, heartless, icy — ad 
mirably well. I wonder if you have a heart, like other 
people, most beautiful Olga, or if, as in the case of the 
Marquise, that inconvenient essential was left out ? ” 

“I think I have got your exact expression, or, 
rather, lack of it,” goes on Miss Ventnor, very busy 
with her work, and evidently quite deaf. “This 
sketch is worthy of being immortalized in oils and 
forwarded to the autumn Exhibition. What were you 
saying a moment ago ? Something uncivil, I think, 
from the sound. But you generally are uncivil, and 
unpleasantly personal in your remarks, I grieve to ob- 
serve, when you do me the honor to address me. 
Nothing in the world, my dear Frank, is in worse form 
than vituperation, and it pains me to observe that you 
are falling sadly into the habit. And poetical vituper- 
ation is worst of all. You will excuse my mentioning 
this. The cousinly — I may almost say the maternal 
— interest I take in you must plead the pardon of 
»’®buke.” 

Livingston laughs again, and takes up :he sketch- 
book, but the sting of her indifference rankles. Jt i« 


AFTER THE 3T0EY ENDED. 


267 


fo read, the pang is in that. She is indifferent to all 
men, she is more than indifferent to him. 

In her beauty, her pride, her grace, and her power 
•he is like some young queen, looking with blue, 
•cornful eyes upon her adorers and slaves. 

As he turns the leaves of the sketch-book he sud 
denly stops, a look of surprise, of pleasure, of recogni 
tion flashes from his eyes. A touch of eager color comes 
into his face ; he takes out a little time- yellowed, 
faded, pencil-drawing from between the leaves. 

“You remember it?” Olga says, calmly. “You 
did that. What centuries ago it seems, and I have 
kept it all this time. I wonder why ? It has no in- 
trinsic value, and certainly it could not have been for 
sake of the artist. No, Frank, you need not put on 
that pathetic look — I assure you it was not for the 
sake of the artist. What a dowdy little thing I look, 
and what a wistful expression you have given me. 
Did I really look like that, at ten years old ? ” 

For faded, yellowed, dim, it is the pencil-sketch 
made by Frank fully eleven years ago. 

“ ‘ Princess Olga, with the love of the most loyal of 
her lieges,’” he reads at the bottom, “ even then, eleven 
years ago, I was in love with you. Princess Olga.” 

“You were in love with Lora Sleaford,” returnt 
Miss Ventnor, composedly, “ with her flame-red cheeki 
and tar- black hair. You always were a person of 
atrocious taste, I regret to remember. You were a 
shocking boy in those days. You used to stay out until 
the small hours, playing cards, singing songs, and 
making love at Sleaford’s.” 

“ And you used to lie awake and watch for me — 1 


AFTEB THE 8T0EY ENDED. 


rBmember thaZ. The Princess Olga of those days mnit 
have been rather fond of me, I think.” 

‘‘ Very likely. I used to be a dreadful little idiot, 
if I recall myself rightly. That picture is associated 
in my mind with my getting lost in the woods, and 
that wild creature Joanna going to tear out my hair, 
and all the misery and illness that followed. I wanted 
you to take me to play croquet with Leo Abbott that 
afternoon, I remember distinctly. I also remember 
distinctly you would not.” 

His eyes are upon her — trouble, longing, imploring 
in their pleading. But she is not inclined to spare him. 

“You would not,” she repeats, a somewhat hard 
inflection in her voice. “You were Lora Sleaford’s 
lover in those days. You wanted to go to her, no 
doubt. You broke your promise to me. You left me, 
whistling a tune, that sketch of myself to comfort me, 
and a childish ache and loneliness that I do not forget 
to this day. You are right. Cousin Frank, I must have 
been fond of you then. I wonder what absence of 
yours could give me a heart-ache now ?” 

A triumphant smile lights her face, an exultant 
sense that it is in no man’s power to touch, or move, 
or hurt her. 

“None, I am quite su’*e, though it were the ab- 
sence from which there is no return,” he answers, 
coldly. 

“ I wandered away,” she goes on, retrospectively, 
“and lost myself in the woods, and you — how little 
you cared I Ah ! well — all that is a decade of years 
ago, and Lora Sleaford is the butcher’s lady over there, 
with a waist two yards round, and nc end of littla 
batchers growing up about her. I saw her yesterday^ 


AFTER THE STORY EKDED. 26 ^ 

Frank, in the midst of her jewels, and thought of your 
first love, and the banjo business, and laughed to my- 
self. No peony, no pickled cabbage was ever so glar- 
ingly purple as her cheeks. What a mistake first love 
is. to be sure !” 

“ Or last love, or any love, in your eyes.^ 

** Or any love — we are so fatally in the power of 
those we love. They can so wring our hearts ; their 
going is such misery, their loss such despair. You see^, 
heartless as I am, I can imagine all that.’’ 

“ Having seen a great deal of it, having caused 
wholesale slaughter wherever you went. Only you 
took care your knowledge should be from observation 
—never from experience.” 

“Never from experience. You sound sarcastic 
Franks but it is very true, nevertheless. Ac to «aus- 
ujg it — )^our great gallantry compels you to say so, nc 
loubt. Poor little yellow pencil sketch ! Put it back. 
It is tlie i>ul souvenir of my childhood, and of — you 
Ijet me cherish it still.” 

lit; ctoes he is told — people do obey her as a 
general thing— sH is more than a trifle imperious even 
in trifles, this Olga, and Livingston is not in- 

clined to rebel. He is conscious of irritating pique 
always, when with her ; her words wound and vex him- 

She is a merciless mistress— it is questionable if any 
lover of hers has ever been a happy man, even in the 
first fleeting hour of his fool’s paradise — most certain 
is he to be supremely miserable a little farther on. 

He turns the leaves of the book mechanically, but 
he hardly sees the sketches, full of vigorous life as 
they ara Olga is almost as ikiiled an artiat ^ him- 
••If. 


870 


AFTER THE STORY ENDE . 


“ Look there I” she says, laying her finger on % 

“ does that resemble any one you know 

It is a young man in the dress of a monk, standing 
in a striking attitude, his handsome head thrown back, 
one hand shading his eyes. His cowl has fallen on hii 
shouldors, his left hand rests on the head of a huge 
dog. 

Both stand listening intently. It is in water-color, 
— a steel gray sky is above ; around, nothing kut snow 
— a white, frozen world. 

Livingston looks, and is conscious, in some queer 
way, that the face of the monk is like his own. 

“ It is a monk and a dog of the Hospice of the 
Great St. Bernard,” says Olga. “ I saw him one even 
ing from my bedroom window, listening and looking 
like that. Do you not see the likeness, Frank ? He 
ijs your image, height, features, complexion, only he 
was more distinguished than you, and had much more 
courtly manners. He looked as if he might have been 
a young Austrian prince, come there to renounce the 
vorld, and live for God and his fellow-men. I was 
very much impressed — I know he must have been of 
noble blood — he had the manners and bow of a court 
chamberlain. And sitting there, that cold, bleak, gray 
evening, I sketched my handsome young monk and hia 
dog. How grave he looks — as if the old life of courts 
and kings were a dream — the shadow of a dream with 
a touch of loneliness in the profound peace. And 1 
thought of you, Frank, and imagined you in cowl and 

robe, and with that look in your eyes ” she breakf 

off with a laugh, this malicious coquette, as Living 
•ton looks up, certainly with a very different expre» 
fion from that in the peaceful, pictured face. 


AFTEB THE STORY ENDED. 


271 


* ‘ I envy them, these monks of old. 

Their books they read, their beads they told, 

To human weakness dead and cold, 

And all life’s vanity.’ 

I 'here is something grand in the idea, is there cot? tc 
renounce all that life holds of brightest and sweetest, 
at that age, and for that reason ? Turn another leaf.” 

“ I am tired of sketches,” he says, impatiently, but 
turns as he says it. “ This is Geoffrey Lamar !” he 
exelaims. 

“ Drawn from memory — yes,” she answers. “Frank, 
where is Geoffrey Lamar?” 

“ Heaven knows ! slaving at his profession, poor fel- 
'ow, I suppose, to support his mother and sister.” 

“ I never understood that matter rightly,” Olga says, 
axcept that Geoffrey made some great sacrifice for 
honor’s sake, and renounced for himself and Leo all 
Mr. Abbott’s wealth. What was it about ?” 

“ Heaven knows aga.’n. I suppose Geoffrey does; 
He is the sort of fellow to know his own mind pretty 
thoroughly. I fancy the money was illy come by, 
somo one had a better claim than even Leo, and so 
Geoffrey gave it up. Noble, as you say, but a trifle 
Quixotic, for the missing heir, whoever he may be> it 
seems cannot be found. But if the heir is never found 
it will make no difference to Lamar. He will work 
like a galley -slave until the day of his death, for his 
mother and sister, but he will never permit them to 
touch a penny of dishonorably-gotten gain. There 
are not many like that.” 

Olga says nothing, but a sort of glow comes into 
her face — a look that is never there except when the 
listens to some deed heroia 


272 


AFTER THE STORY ENDED. 


lie is of the stuff that made paladins of oal,” goei 
on Livingston, “ with uplifted notions on every subject 
under the sun — a sort of Sir Galahad, you know, tc 
ride to the aid of damsels in distress. Witness hit 
adoption of Sleaford’s Joanna. By-the-bye, I wonder 
whatever has become of Wild Joanna. I must step 
in and inquire of Mistress Lora one of these days. 
Not that she is likely to know.” 

“ When did you see Geoff — the Abbotts, last 
Olga inquires. 

“ I saw Geoff in New York, but ‘we met by chance 
the usual way.’ He does not live there, but somewhere 
out of the world, ’where he is working himself to skin 
and bone, judging by his look. They have sunk the 
Abbott, and call themselves Lamar now — the old 
pride, you know. I do not see much sense in it myself. 
They might at least use the property until the missing 
heir turns up. I would have liked to go and see Leo, 
but Geoffrey’s manner was cold and discouraging. 
And one cannot force one’s self whether or no, you 
know.” 

“I do not know. My experience — of you— is 
particularly the reverse, but I suppose cousins are 
always an exception. As you are here, Frank, you 
may as well make yourself useful, and carry my sketch 
book home. I am going.” 

She rises — a lofty, slender, white igure- -picks 
up her cashmere and gold wrap, puts on her prettj 
hat, and turns to go. 

“ Come, Frank !” she says, and glances back, with 
one of those brilliantly sweet smiles that are as fatal 
to men as the siren song of the fabled Lurley. What 
if Frank that be should resist ? He is but mortal, and 


AFTEE THE COHOEBl. 


m 

the spell of the enchantress is upon him. Is he i& 
love with her? really in love? He asks himself that 
question sometimes, but never when by her side. Then 
the glamour of the white witchery is upon him, and 
he lives but to do her bidding. Coldness, coquetry, 
are forgotten now; he picks up the big flat book., 
throws on his hat, and is by her side. And he thinks 
of a fitting couplet — though remembering recent 
rebuke he does not quote it: 

“You throw cfi vour iriends, like a 'huntsman his pack, 

For you know when you will you can whistle them back.” 

All the way to Ventnor Villa Olga is very silent 
and thoughtful. The sun is setting as they reach it, 
and she lingej-s a moment to look at its rose and 
gold beauty. But she is not thinking much of the 
sunset — not at all of the young cavalier by her side. 

“Like a paladin of old,'' she muses, dreamily 
‘Yes, it is Hue. He is noble, great, good, »elf-sacrifi 
cing. I wish — I wish I could see— -Leo Abb^t^ 
again.” 


CHAPTER 11. 


AFTER THE CONCERT. 



HE lamps are it in the pretty drawing-room 
of the villa. Dinner is over, and the one 
guest, the Reverend Ignatius Lamb, siU 
near Mrs. Yentnor’s sofa, talking earne«tly. 
The ex-rector of St. Walburga’s is the incumbent of 
beautiful little church in the village now, not so rich 
vr rare a gem certainly as St. W alburga’s in the days of 
13 * 


274 


ArrEE THE OONCEBT. 


Mrs. Abbott — still, an extremely pretty structure. 
Gothic as to style, mediaeval as to painted saints on 
golden backgrounds, aristocratic as to congregation 
and all that there is of the most ritualistic, as to doc- 
trine. 

Mrs. Ventnor, pallid, languid, graceful, reclining 
on her couch, listens with weary interest. She has a 
pew at St. Chad’s, and is especially anxious about the 
success of Mr. Lamb’s latest project — that of founding 
a convent and an orphan asylum, on a grant of land 
recently presented to the church by Colonel Ventnor. 
The order is quite a new one, the Sisters of the Suffer- 
ing — Mr. Lamb himself the founder, and to establish 
the Mother House in Brightbrook, with an asylum and 
a day-school, is a project very near to the reverend 
gentleman’s heart. 

“ I saw the Reverend Mother last week,” he is say- 
ing to Mrs. Ventnor, “ and it was she who proposed 
this concert. For obvious reasons, it is more conven- 
ient at present than either a picnic or fair. Mother 
Bonaventure knows this singer — this Miss Jenny Wild 
— knew her before she entered religion — you under- 
stand, and speaks of her in the very highest terms. 
Her moral character — Miss Wild’s, of course — is per- 
fectly unexceptionable. And she is more than willing 
to assist us by giving a concert and donating the pro- 
ceeds. She is said to excel in charities indeed, and is 
especially interested in orphan children. In addition to 
her concert she promises two hundred dollars. All this, 
with the noble donation of your excellent husband, my 
<2 ear madam, will enable us to start work at once, without 
‘.ncurring pecuniary liabilities. Everything is arranged, 
and the concert takes place on Mon iay evening. Migf 


AFTEK THE COHOERT. 


m 


Wild 18 at present in New Yorn, tut w-11 reach 
Brightbrook on that day. May I hope, my dear Mra 
Ventnor, that you will endeavor to be present?” 

“I go nowhere of late,” Mrs. Ventnor responds, 
languidly, “ as you are aware. My wretched health, 
you know — but assuredly, if possible, I will be present 
at the concert.” 

“ And Miss Olga — we may, I pres -me, count upon 
her without fail.” 

The door opens as he speaks, and the Reverend 
Ignatius pauses, and is conscious of a shock — not an 
unpleasant one. He bolds distinct views upon the 
celibacy of the clergy, and has always advocated them, 
but at this moment he feels that under certain in* 
duences a man and an Anglican priest may be untrue 
to the convictions of his life, and yet be excusable. 

She comes in, tall, slender, white-robed, her lovely 
hair falling like a bath of sunshine over her shoulders, 
her gold and snow drapery trailing about her, a faint 
flush on her cheeks, a starry light in the blue, blue 
eyes. Behind her comes her faithful shadow, Frank, 
and the Reverend Ignatius frowns slightly, and 
realizes that handsome distant cousins are a most dan- 
gerous and objectionable class of men. 

“ My dear, how late you are,” mamma murmurs, as 
Olga stoops and kisses her, “ we have dined without 
you. Dr. Gillson, you know, is most peremptory on 
the point of my always dining at the same hour.” 

“ Pray make no excuses, mamma — it does not mat- 
ter in the least,” Olga says, gayly. ' Blank and I will 
dine tete-a-tete. We have been quarreling all the after- 
noon, and can recommence over our soup. Anything 


AFTER THE CONCERT. 


rte 

mw in Brightbrook, Mr. Lamb? What ii the ne'ff 
convent ?” 

Olga thinks of renouncing this wicked world, and 
going in for Mother Abbess. The role would suit her 
I think. She has rather the look at this moment of a 
vestal virgin — a Norma — a Priestess of the Sun. That 
sort of people never cared for anybody but themselves, 
and were Baade of ice-water more or less, I believe.” 

“ My dear Frank, how often have I told you sar- 
casm is not your strong point ? You mean to be cyni- 
cal, but in reality I am almost sure I should like it. 
The habit of the Sisters of the Suffering is in admirable 
taste — a trained black robe, a white coif, and long 
black vail are always picturesque and becoming. 
What of our fair, Mr. Lamb — or is it to be a picnic ?” 

Mr. Lamb explains. It is to be neither. It is to 
be a concert — a ballad concert, with Miss Jenny Wild 
as prima-donna, and Monday next is the appointed 
night. 

“Miss Jenny Wild? Jenny Wild? I do not 
know that name. Who is she ? Do you know her, 
Frank?” 

“ Never heard her — heard of her though. Sings in 
character — ballads chiefly, and is very popular. Good 
contralto they say, but seldom comes to New York. 
It is not to be supposed you would know her. Miss 
Yentnor — scampering over the face of the earth as you 
have been for the past five years. Come to dinner. I 
do not know how it may be with you, but I am con 
sumedly hungry.” 

They go. Frank may be in love with the exquisite 
face across the table, but that fact does not impair his 
appetite to any serious extent. If it exists, it is per 


AFfER THE OONCEBT. 


377 


haps a love of the eyes, not of the heart, for he is dis- 
tinctly conscious of being much more comfortable 
away from his adored one than with her. 

Her presence, her triumphant beauty, have upon 
him the effect of a fever. He seeks to woo and win 
her, and he feels that if he succeeds he will be in a 
state of unrest and discomfort all the rest of his life. 
She exacts too much, her ideal is too high ; he can 
never reach it ; it is always uncomfortable to dwell on 
the heights. Still, the family expect it of him, and to 
show the white feather in love or in war is not the 
nature of a Livingston. In an off-hand sort of way he 
has been making love to his pretty cousin ever since 
he can remember, but to distinct proposal he has never 
yet come. In his pocket, to-night, a letter lies from 
his mother, urging, entreating, commanding him to 
speak before he leaves Brightbrook. Business calls 
him away on Tuesday next, and the Rubicon must be 
crossed between then and now. He is not a nervous 
young man as a rule ; but, truth to tell, the thought 
makes his heart beat a little quickly. Perhaps it is 
not to his discredit that be is a trifle afraid of this regal 
Olga. He is not the first man who has feared this 
chill, white goddess. This is Thursday evening. Ho 
has still one, two, three, four days and nights to screw 
his courage to the sticking-place, and put his fate to 
the touch, to “ win or lose it all.” 

‘‘ I will speak to-morrow,” he thinks, looking at hef 
across the cut flowers and crystal. “ Hang it all I why 
should I be afraid ? 

“ ‘ Praise as you may. when the tale is done. 

She is but a maid to be wooed and won.’ ” 

Bat to-morrow comes and be does not speak. Ht 




AFTSB THE OONOEET. 


does not feel sentimental, as it chances, and no fellow 
can propose in cold blood. And Satuiday, and Sun 
day, and Monday come, and still golden silence reigna, 
and his fate hangs in the balance. And Monday even 
ing is the evening of the concert, and there is no longer 
chance or time. 

The whole Ventnor family go. Olga, in India mus- 
lin, with touches of crimson here and there in her pale, 
crisp draperies and laces, is, as ever, bewildering. A 
fairly fashionable assembly fills the hall, and Miss 
Ventnor finds an acquaintance who seems to know all 
about the musical star of the night. 

‘‘A very charming songstress, I assure you,” the 
lady says. She travels with her guardian and his 
wife — Germans, I believe — and has a very sweet and 
powerful contralto, with an odd sort of pathos in it 
that most people are captivated by who hear her sing. 
I have seen her give nearly a whole evening’s enter 
tainment herself, singing song after song, in character 
with a rapidity and power quite amazing. It is very 
good of her to proffer her services in this way ; but 
then she is good ; it is quite like her. She is the most 
generous and large-hearted creature in the world — and 
beyond reproach, I assure you. In all quarters Mis# 
Wild is most highly spoken of.” 

“ Yes ?” Olga says, indifferently. She is not much 
interested, naturally, in Miss Wild or her character. 
Her glass sweeps the hall, and she is busy acknowledg- 
ing bows. It is something of a bore to be here at all, 
After seasons of Patti and Nilsson abroad. Still, it is 
for Mr. Lamb, and she '.s Olga Ventnor — and nohlesst 
Mige, 

The curtain rises ; the stage is handsomely deco- 


AFTER THE OO^OEET. 


279 

rated A slim, dark young man, with great Italian 
eyes and accent, appears, and sings, “ Let Me Lil^e a 
Soldier Fall,” in a very fine baritone voice. Then there 
18 a piano solo — Liszt’s “ Rhapsodic ” No. 2 , performed 
.n a masterly manner by Herr Ericsou, and then Miss 
Jenny Wild is before them, and “Love My Love” is 
ringing through the concert-room, in a voice that makes 
even Olga Ventnor, difficult as she is, look up in pleased 
surprise. And looking once, she looks again. The 
singer, a tall, finely-formed young woman, dressed 
simply enough, in dark silk, is a person to command 
from most people a second glance. It is hardly a hand- 
some face, but it is a striking one ; the features are 
good, the eyes dark and brilliant, and with an intensity 
of expression not often seen. There is vivid dra- 
matic power in her rendering of the song — the voice 
has that sweet, touching, minor tone Olga has heard 
of. But something beyond all this strikes and holds 
Mias Ventnor. “As in a glass darkly” she seems to 
recognize that face, that voice. She knits her brows, 
and tries to recall. In vain — Miss Jenny Wild refuses 
to be placed. She concludes her song, and disappears 
in the midst of a tumult of applause. 

“ She is really a very fine singer,” Olga says to the 
' ady by her side, “ but it is the oddest thing — I seem 
lo have seen and heard her somewhere before.” 

“You have attended some of her concerts, per- 
naps ?” the lady suggests. 

“No, it cannot be that — this is the first concert I 
have attended since my return to America. Frank !” 
imperiously, “ are you asleep ? What are yen thinking 
of, sitting there, with that dazed look ?” 

“ Of Miss Jenny Wild. Somewhere — in some other 


380 


AFTER THE CONCERT. 


planet perhaps — I must have met that young lady bo* 
fore. Ah ! she is good-natured ; she responds to the 
encore. Here she is again.” 

Miss Wild reappears, bowing graciously to the 
hearty call she has received. Her fine dark eyei 
calmly survey the house, and lift and rest for the first 
time on the Ventnor party. They fall on Frank 
Livingston, and meet his puzzled glance full. 

A slight flush rises to her face, a slight smile dawns 
about the lips, then her graceful figure is drawn up, 
and she is singing “ Within a Mile of Edinboro’ Town.” 
The old, ever-welcome favorite is listened to with de- 
light, and a great basket of flowers is presented to the 
singer. Olga hands Frank her bouquet. 

‘‘ Throw it,” she says ; ‘‘ she deserves it. She sang 
that delightfully. Miss Jenny Wild is worth coming to 
hear. But, oh ! where have I seen and heard her before ? ” 

Frank throws the cluster of white roses with un- 
erring aim — it lights at the feet of the songstress. 
She stoops and picks it up, and again that slight 
glance, and flush, and smile rest on Livingston, as she 
bows and quits the stage. 

The Italian sings again. Herr Ericson performs a 
ringing Rondo, and Miss Wild sings the grand aria, 
“Nabuco ” from Verdi, quite magnificently, and again 
is rapturously encored. Once more she responds with 
another Scotch song, Sleeping Maggie,” and once more 
her eyes look and linger with evident amusement on 
the profoundly puzzled face of Frank Livingston. 
Then the concert is over, and they are out in the sweel 
darkness of the June night. 

“ Who is Miss Jenny Wild ? ” cries Olga, im- 
patiently ; I hate to be pnszled, and she pnzzles 


AFTER THE CONCERT 


Frank, T command you ] find out all about her, and 
tell me why her face and voice are so ridiculously 
familiar. And she has, evidently, seen t/ou before— 
she did you the honor to look at you more than once 
in the most marked manner.” 

I go to-morrow,” is Frank’s answer, “ and whether 
J shall ever return to discover Miss Jenny Wild’s an- 
tecedents, or for any other reason, depends entirely on 
you, Olga, and what you will say to me to-night ! ” 
The hour has come— the two are alone, lingering 
for a moment before saying good-night and going in. 
They stand on the piazza ; the June stars shine above 
them ; the silence of midnight is around them. 

She glances at him in surprise ; she is humming 
‘‘ Within a Mile of Edinboro’ Town.” 

“ ‘ For I cannot — wunnot — wunnot — wunnot buckle 
to ! ’ ” she sings, and then breaks off to laugh. 

“What a tragical face ! What a desperate tone ! 
What a dramatic speech ! You go to-morrow, and 
whether you will ever return depends on what I will 
say to-night ! Really, Frank, the concert, and the 
impassioned singing of Miss Wild have been too much 
for you. Must you really go to-morrow ? I am sorry, 
Hurry back.” 

“ Are you sorry, Olga ? Shall you miss me ? Do 
you care for me, I wonder, the very least in the world? 
Oh, you know what I mean ! Do not laugh at me, for 
God’s sake!” with almost angry impatience. “You 
have laughed at me long enough ! I love you^ Olga I — 
I want you to be my wife ! ” 

The words, thought of so long, come abruptly 
enough — roughly, indeed. He sees in her face the 
familiar, mocking look he knows so well— a look 


282 


AFTER THE OONOEBT. 


nothing seems to have power to soften or change 
But at the irritated passion of his voice and face it 
dies out, and she looks at him with smiling, gentle 
half amused eyes. 

“ I like you so much, Frank, that I am sorry you 
have said this. You do not mean it, do you V We 
have been playing at flirtation all our lives, and, by 
mistake, you have fancied the play earnest to-night. 
You are not in love with me — you do not want me to 
be your wife. You would be miserable if I said yes, 
and you know it. But fear not. I am not going to 
say yes.” 

“ Say it and try ! I will risk the misery. All my 
life will be devoted to you, every thought of my heart, 
if you will marry me, Olga.” 

“Marry you !” she repeats; “marry yow, Frank !” 
There is that in her tone makes Livingston redden 
angrily and throw back his head. She laughs a little 
in spite of herself. “ I never thought of such a thing 
in my life,” she says, with cruel coolness. 

“Do you mean to tell me,” the young man de- 
mands, in no very tender tone, “ that you did not 
know it was a compact made and agreed to years and 
years ago ?” 

“ Never !” she answers, with energy, “ never I In 
such compact I had no share — of such compact I never 
heard. Oh, yes !” contemptuously, in reply to his 
indignant glance; “I have heard hints, innuendoes, 
seen smiles and wise glances; but do you think I 
heeded them ? They are the impertinences relatives 
seem to think they have a right to. There is but one 
Txerson on earth who has a right to speak to me of such 
a thing — my dear father — and he has been silent 


ikFTEB LONG YEABS. 


And 1 do not care for you, Frank — in that way. I 
am very fond of you — there never was a time when I 
was not, I think,” she says, and holds out her hand 
with the sweet, alluring smile that makes men her 
ilav^es, ‘‘ there never will come a time when I shall not 
be But not like that. There is not a friend I have 
in the world I would not sooner lose than you; so 
shake hands and forget and forgive all this. Let us 
say good-night and good-by, and when you return — 
gay in three or four weeks — you will have forgotten 
the fancy of to-night. Do not look cross, Frank, it 
does not become you — and come in.” 

She slips her hand through his arm, and, half 
laughing at his moody face, draws him into the house. 
The gas burns low in the drawing-room, the piano 
stands open; she strikes the keys as she stands, smiling 
over her shoulder, and sings: 

The fairest rose blooms but a day — Good-bj! 

The fairest spring must end with May, 

And you and I can only say : 

Good-by, good-by, good-by I” 


\ CHAPTER HL 

AFTBE LONG TEARS. 

HE morning that follows this night of the 
concert is bleak and raw for June. A drab 
sky frowns on a sunless world; the wind 
is as much like November as the month ol 
roses, and the weather-wise predict rain. But in this 
threatening state of the weather Miss Jenny Wild hires 
a pony carnage, and starts all by herself for a drive. 



AFTER LONG TEARS. 


Not for an aimless drive — she seems to know very well 
where she wants to go. She is very plainly dressed, 
in black, a straight dark figure sitting upright in the 
little carriage, a black straw hat, with a blue va’d 
twisted round it, on her head. She pulls this vail ovei 
her face as she drives through the village, and, glancing 
hardly to the right or left, takes the woodland road, 
and pulls up at the Red Farm, erstwhile Sleaford’s. 

Here she sits and gazes for a long, long time, with 
darkly-thoughtful face and brooding eyes, at the 
dreary and deserted house. There her most miserable 
childhood was spent ; working in that kitchen her 
most miserable girlhood wore on ; in that attic room 
how many supremely wretched nights of cold, and 
pain, and isolation, and heart-break the child Joanna 
struggled through ! In that adjoining chamber her 
merciless task-master had met his fate, and passed to 
his death. In that parlor, with its shattered panes, 
how many a jolly revel had been held, in which her 
part was only additional drudgery. And yet she had 
liked them, too; there were light and music, and 
laughter and dancing, and youth, and at one of them 
she had first seen Frank Livingston’s gay, handsome 
face — the same face, older, manlier, she had looked 
upon again last night. Out of yonder broken gate 
she had watched him come one never-to-be-forgotten 
morning, with his fair little cousin in his arms. Last 
night he had sat by that fair young cousin’s side, and 
listened to her singing. Always these two are asso- 
ciated in her mind, and always with a sense of dull, 
morbid pain. In that gloomy kitchen she first saw 
Geoffrey Lamar, the true, noble-hearted friend who 
had done all in his power to lift her out of her misery 


AFTEB LONG YEAJtS. 


And out of herself. Here wild Joanna suffered and 
slaved, was beaten and girded at ; from here she flea, 
out into the woild, with George Blake ! And to-day 
she might have been George Blake’s wife, if chance — 
or Providence — had not thrown in her way Frank 
Livingston, and so in a moment changed her whole 
life. 

She turns from the eerie spot at last, and goes on 
to Black’s Dam. Here, too, time and decay have lain 
their ruinous finger. The old mill, her shelter and 
solace so often, has fallen to utter decay, the pond is 
almost dry — silent desolation reigns. She turns from 
it with a shudder, and drives away. Great drops of 
rain are beginning to patter, but she cares almost as 
little for a wetting now as in the old days. She drives 
to Abbott Wood — the old gate-keeper lives still in the 
vine-wreathed Gothic lodge, but he can give her no 
news of his missing mistress. 

A lawyer from the city does everything that is to 
be done in these latter days. Of Mrs. Abbott or Mr. 
Geoffrey no one seems to know anything. The rain 
falls heavily as she drives through the lovely, leafy 
avenues, up to the grand, silent, somber house. The 
blinds are down, the shutters closed ; it looks as if it 
were mourning for those it has lost. She does not go 
in, though she is invited to do so by Mrs. Hill. She 
feels she cannot look at those fair, empty apartments, 
filled by the haunting faces of half a dozen years ago. 
Her own is among them — the restless, unhappy, aim- 
less Joanna of seventeen. She is neither aimless nor 
restless now. She has found her niche and work in 
life, and they suit her well. But happy ? Well, she 
is hardly that, and yet a very different^, a much wis^r^ 


386 


AFTER LONG YEARS. 


gentler, nobler Joanna, than the dark, discontented 
protigee of Geoffre)^ Lamar. Softened and good she 
has grown, through years of kindness and affectior 
given to her lavishly and loyally by the Herr Professor 
and Madame Ericson. All that is best in her has 
its day at last. Of friends she has many ; of lovers 
she has had her share ; of admirers more than shs 
cares to remember. And love has redeemed her, and 
“Miss Jenny Wild” is all that they say of her, and 
more, giving of her abundance to all who ask and 
need. 

That afternoon Professor Ericson and his family, 
as he calls them, leave Brightbrook. By the morning 
train Mr. Frank Livingston has gone up to New York, 
and while Miss Wild is recalling the days of her youth, 
he is spinning along, a cigar between his lips, the 
morning paper in his hand, far from the scene of his 
despair. Truth to tell, he looks anything but despair- 
ing this morning, in a most becoming English suit of 
the very roughest gray tweed, fresh, vigorous, good- 
looking, alert. Broken-hearted at his rejection he has 
a right to be, and may be ; but a broken heart is be- 
coming to some people, and Livingston is apparently 
one of them. In his secret soul there is rather a sen- 
sation of relief, that as the train bowls along it bears 
him in its throbbing bosom a free man ! He has done 
what destiny and his Maker, and the united houses of 
Ventnor and Livingston expected of him, and she has 
said No, and there is no appeal. And when Mr. Liv- 
ingston dies, and worms eat him, whatever the imme- 
diate cause may be, he is comfortably convinced it 
will not be love. So, in a fairly cheerful mood, he 
inrveyi his fellow-passengers, unfolds his Brightbrook 


AFTEB LONG TEABS. 


387 

paper, and reads what the musical critic of that sheet 
has to say about last night’s concert. Miss Wild is 
landed, and Livingston is disposed to laud also. She 
sang remarkably well, and looked very imposing. That 
grand aria from “Nabuco” is still ringing 'n his ears, 
and it occurs to him once more to wonder why her face 
should be so oddly familiar. Not a pretty face, he 
decides, but a good one, a striking one, and once seen 
not easily forgotten. And then he turns to another 
column and subject^ and forgets all about it. 

He spends three or four days in New York, among 
old friends and old haunts. His principal object in 
coming to town is to tell his mother the result of his 
proposal, and so make an end of that business at once 
and forever ; but his mother has gone on a visit. He 
proposes to follow her, for he knows it is a subject on 
which she is more than anxious ; but it is news that 
will keep, and he does not hurry himself. On the 
evening of the third day he sees by the bills that Miss 
Jenny Wild is to give one of her character concerts, 
and makes up his mind to go. 

^‘Perhaps I shall be able to place her this time,* 
he thinks, “ and so get rid of her altogether. I be- 
lieve I was dreaming of her half the night last night.” 

So, a little after the commencement of the concert, 
Mr. Livingston saunters in, and finds a large and 
fashionable gathering. Many of the faces present are 
^amiliar ; one lady in a private box bows, and smiles, 
and beckons, and in a few moments he is shaking hands 
with Mrs. Van Rensselaer and her daughters. 

“ So glad to meet you once more, my dear hoy,” 
that great and gracious lady exclaims, “ and looking 
•o extremely sun-bumed and well. We heard you had 


APTEE LONG TEAKS. 


SB8 

return€d with the Ventnors, and were staying with 
them at that charming villa. And how is dear Mrs. 
Ventnor, and the lovely Olga, after their prolonged 
European tour ?” 

“ Mrs. Yentnor is much as usual, and Olga is ralhei 
lovelier than usual,” says Frank. 

“And when are we to congratulate you, Mr. Liv- 
ingston ?” says the elder Miss Van Rensselaer, a dash- 
ing and daring brunette, but not quite so young as she 
used to be. “ Ah ! we hear more than you think, W8 
stay-at-homes. We expected Olga would have cap- 
tured a duke at least, so many rich American girls are 
making brilliant matches this year. And yet there 
she is, la belle des belles, back again and — as we under 
stand — unattached ! But you can open the mysteries-, 
no doubt.” 

“ I only know Olga refused half the peerage !” says 
Livingston, with calm mendacity. “ As for your very 
flattering hints. Miss Van Rensselaer, you" do me too 
much honor in inferring I have anything to do with 
it. I might as well love some bright particular star, 
and so on, as my beautiful Cousin Olga. Such 
daughters of the gods are not for impecunious artists 
like myself. Ah ! here is Miss Wild, and as Mar- 
guerite, singing the famous ‘Jewel Song.’ How well 
she is looking, and in what capital voice she is to- 
night.” 

“You have seen her before?” Miss Brenda Van 
Rensselaer inquires. 

“ Once before, at a concert last Monday night. Her 
voice has the ringing of mountain bells, and what 
pathos and dramatic force she has. She would make 8 


AFTICE LONG YEABS. 9S9 

9ne actress. It strikes me Miss Wild grows on one. I 
like her better now than I did even then.” 

Oh ! she is lovely,’* cries Miss Brenda, gushingly. 
“ W e are the greatest friends. She is received by the 
very best people. She is perfectly charming in private 
life, and, unlike most artists, always so willing to sing. 
She comes to us to-night after the concert ; mamma 
has a reception. I think her drawing-room songs are 
even more beautiful than her stage singing.” 

‘‘Come and make her acquaintance,” says Mm. 
Van Rensselaer, graciously. 

“ Thanks — I will,” Livingston respondii. 

He is exceedingly taken by Miss Wild, he loves 
music almost more than he does art, and her voice, her 
look are so sympathetic that they draw him irresistibly. 
Besides, he wants to discover what is that familiar lcK?k 
about her that so perplexes him now. 

“ Who is Miss Wild ?” he asks, as, in the mldat of 
hearty applause, she quits the stage, 

“Ah! who, indeed?” returns the elder Miss Van 
Rensselaer. “ Find somebody to answer that if you 
can I No one knows ; she arose first a little pale star 
out West, and went on shining and enlarging until she 
is the star of first magnitude. You see her now. 
Hark to the clapping— ehe will return in a moment — 
they always encore her songs. Flattering, but rather 
a bore, I should think. Here she is ; what will she 
give us now, I wonder ?” 

An hour later he stands in the Van Rensselaer 
drawing-rooms, and awaits his introduction to the can- 
tatrice. He cannot tell why he is so vividly inter- 
ested in her, unless it is caused by that puzzling famil- 
iarity. But interested and impatient be is, and as he 
18 


290 


AFTER LONG YEARS. 


has never been to meet any artist of the kind 
before. 

"Mr. Livingston, Miss Wild,” says, simply, hli 
hostess, and he looks down into two dark, jewel-like 
eyes, into a smiling face. He is conscious of bowing 
and murmuring his pleasure — another moment and 
soma one else has claimed her, and she turns — is 
gone. 

He looks after her with knitted brows, and ever 
deepening perplexities. That tall figure, that gentle, 
earnest face, those great gem-like eyes — they are in 
ome mysterious way as well-known to him as his own 
lace in the glass. He tries to approach her more than 
once as the evening wears on, but she is always 
surrounded. The charm of her manner evidently 
carries all before it, as well as the charm of her voice. 

Presently, when he is about to give up in despair, 
he hears her singing, and makes his way to the piano. 
The words she sings he has never heard before — 
air is tender and very sweet. 

“ My darling 1 my darling! my darling! 

Do you know how I want you to-night? 

The wind passes, moaning and snarling, 

Like some evil ghost on its flight. 

On the wet street your lamp’s gleam shmes reaiy , 
You are sitting alone — did you start 

As I spoke? Did you guess at this deadly 
Chill pain in my heart ? 

" Out here where the dull rain is falling, 

Just once — just a moment — I wait; 

Did you hear the sad voice that was calling 
Your name, as I paused by the gate ? 

It was just a mere breath, ah, I know, dear, 

Not even Love’s ears could have heaid; 

But, oh, I was hungering so, dear. 

Pot one little word. 


AFTER LONO TEARS. 


291 


Ah, me I for a word that could more you, 

Like a whisper of magical art 1 
I love you I I love you 1 I love you I 

There is no other word in my heart ” 

She looks up ; her eyes meet his. Has she becB 
conscious of his presence there all along ? Her hands 
strike the wrong chords ; there is a jar and discord ; 
a flush rises over her face ; she laughs, and suddenly 
breaks off. 

“ Oh, go on !” half a dozen voices cry ; “ that is 
lovely.” 

“I sing it from memory,” Miss Wild says. “It is 
a little poem I lit upon the other day in a magazine, 
and it seemed to fit some music I had. I will sing you 
something better instead.” 

She sings “Kathleen Mavourneen,” and looks no 
more at Frank Livingston. He stands wondering, and 
of his wonder finding no end. He turns over absently 
some sheets of music bearing her name, and as he 
does so, from one of them a written page falls. It is 
the song she has broken off. Instantly he commits 
petty larceny, and puts it in his pocket. 

“ It will serve as an excuse to call upon her and 
restore her property,” thinks this “artful dodger.” 
* Find out who she is I must, or I shall perish misera- 
bly of curiosity.” 

“ Kathleen Mavourneen ” is finished, and she makes 
a motion to rise ; but her listeners seem insatiable. 

“ Only one more — one little, little one, dear Miss 
Wild,” a young lady says. 

She pauses, glances at Livingston’s absorbed face, 
smiles, and begins, “ My Ain Ingleside.” And then, 
in one second, like a flash, a shook, the truth burst! 


202 


AFTER LONG TEARS. 


upon bim. He has heard that song before In the 
drawing-room oi Abbott Wood he has beard the same 
voice sing it I He stands petrified, spell-bound, breath- 
less, his eyes on her face. Sleaford’s Joanna ! Yes, 
yes, yes ! the reddish, unkempt hair shining, dark, 
becomingly dressed, the sweet voice perfected, 
womanly, and sweet, but still — Sleaford’s Joanna I 

How it comes about he does not know, but five 
minutes later he is standing with her alone, both her 
hands clasped close in his. 

“ It is !” he exclaims ; “ I cannot be mistaken. It 
is Joanna !” 

‘‘Sleaford’s Joanna,” she answers, and tears slowlj 
fill her eyes, though her lips are smiling. “ I saw yoi 
knew me, puzzled as you looked, and thought the old 
song would put an end to your evident misery. Yes 
Mr. Livingston, after all these years, it is Joanna.” 

“ And I am the first to find you,” he says, triumph 
antly, “ that is a good omen. Tell me where you live 
I must come to see you, and talk over the old days 
You shall not make a stranger of so old a friend 
Joanna.” 

“ So old a friend !” she draws away her hands anc 
laughs. “Were you and I ever friends? Ah, yes 
come and see me. It does me good to look at a Bright 
brook face. And I am glad — yes, glad, that yours i 
the first.” 

“ And that is Sleaford’s Joanna,” Livingston thinks 
going home through the city streets, feeling dazed anc 
in a dream ; “ fair, stately, famous I What will Olgt 
■ay when 1 tell her thu V* 


293 


** OABRIED B1 3TOKM.’* 

CHAPTER IV. 

“OABRIED BY STOBM.” 

HEN Mr. Frank Livingston carries bis 
blighted affections away with him from 
Brightbrook and his fair, cold cousin Olga, 
it is, as has been said, with the intention 
of seeing his mother and making an end of that, and 
then starting off for a summer sketching tour, through 
Canada and British Columbia. 

That was his intention. The last week of June is 
here, and so is Mr. Livingston. Canada and British 
Columbia — places misty, afar-off, unseen and undesired. 
Three weeks have come and gone, warm, dusty weeks, 
and every day of these twenty-one days has seen him 
by the side of Miss Jenny Wild, and for more hours a 
day than he cares to count. 

Miss Wild is still singing — not every night, but one 
or two evenings a week. She is a favorite with the 
musical public, and her concerts are always well at- 
tended. On the nights she sings, a slender and exceed- 
ingly handsome young man may be observed in one of 
the front seats, drinking in with entranced looks every 
note of that sweet, bell-like voice. Miss Wild on the 
stage, in trailing silks and stage adjuncts, is a very 
imposing and graceful person. 

She has a face that lights up well, dark, pale, and 
clear ; great star-like eyes, and the most beautiful 
smile and teeth — the young gentleman in the front 
seat thinks — in all the world. She is hardly hand- 
some — at times she is positively p!ain ; but vet there 



“ CARRIED BY 3T0BM. 


2Q4: 


>> 


are others, when, flushed and sparkling with excite- 
ment and applause her dark eyes shining, she ii 
brilliantly attractive. She possesses, in an eminent 
degree, that magnetic unknown grace, quite apart from 
beauty, and called fascination. Her smile enchants ; 
her eyes hold you ; her voice haunts you ; her tricks 
and graces of manner captivate before you know it, 
Where the charm exactly lies no one can tell, not her 
most bewitched admirer, but it is there, subtile and 
irresistible. The tones of her voice, the words she 
says and sings, the light of her eyes and her smile 
linger in the memory of men after lovelier women are 
forgotten. Perhaps it is a little in her abounding 
vitality, her joyous life, her lavish largeness of heart, 
that has room and to spare for all who come. Friends, 
admirers, lovers, if you will, she has many, and fore- 
most among them Frank Livingston. For Frank 
Livingston to be in love, or what he calls such, is no 
new experience. He has loved many women, and been 
cared for, more or less, a good deal, in turn. Hand- 
some, insouciant^ inconstant, he is yet a gallant and 
gracious young fellow, for whose faults fair flirts are 
quite as much to blame as his own intrinsic infidelity 
Three weeks ago a young lady refused him — at present 
he is the ardent admirer of another. In any case he 
would have taken his rejection with philosophy, and 
consoled himself promptly — possibly with some good- 
looking young squaw, if he had gone to British Colum- 
bia, He has not gone to that chilly land, and Miss 
Jenny Wild, the songstress, has found favor in my lord’s 
sight. She bewitches him — her force of character, hef 
great popularity, the number of his rivals, the evident 
oreference she shows him, turn his head. He ignores 


“ CARRIED BY STORM.” 39d 

past and fature, he lives in the ptosent — in the snn 
light cf those dark, entrancing eyes. He spends every 
afternoon by her side, in the park, in the streets, in 
her parlor. He sketches her in half a hundred atti- 
tudes — he is painting her portrait — he is perfectly 
happy ! 

For Miss Wild — well, Livingston cannot quite make 
her out. Her eyes and smile welcome him always ; 
she takes his bouquets, she sings him the songs he likes. 
Her doors are open to him when closed to all the rest 
of the world. And something in all this puzzles him. 
If it were any one else, it would be most encouraging 
preference ; but this is Joanna, and Joanna is different. 
He does not understand her. He is by no means sure 
of what her answer would be, if be were inclined to 
speak to-morrow. She likes him — yes, of that there 
can be no doubt ; but if he were to say, “Joanna, will 
you be my wife ?” he has very strong doubts of what 
her answer would be. But he really has no intention 
of asking any such thing. The present is delightful ; 
it is charming to be with her — that suffices. To-day is 
good — why lift the vail that hides to-morrow ? To be 
epris is one thing, to ask the lady to marry one is 
another. 


“ And so to-night is your last appearance foi the 
summer ?” he says, “ and you all go to your Newport 
cottage to-morrow? Well, New York is no longer 
habitable, of course ; but what an elysiura I have 
found it for the past month ! I, too, shall go to New- 
port, Jcanna !” 

“ And that sketching and hunting tour in Britiah 


296 “ OAERIED BY STOBM.’’ 

Coluiitbia ? And that visit to your anxious uamms 1 
What of them ?” she asks, laughing. 

They sit alone in the cool, green-shaded parlor, 
Joanna doing: lace work, Frank on an ottoman more or 
less at her feet, with the Browning he has been read- 
ing aloud tellingly, on his knee. 

‘‘ I must see my mother,” he answers, frowning 
impatiently, but it will be a flying visit. As for 
British Columbia — well, British Columbia will always 
be there, and other summers will come. But the 
chance of going to Newport — in this way — may not 
occur again.” 

“ I think it had better not occur now. Start on that 
visit to Mrs. Livingston to-morrow, and take train from 
there to Montreal. It will be best, believe me. You 
have had a surfeit of Newport and surf bathing, I 
should think, before now.” 

“ Neither Newport nor surf bathing will be novel- 
ties, certainly. But I do not go for them, you know 
that. Do you forbid me to follow, Joanna?” 

‘‘Why should I ?” she says, and her dark eyes rest 
on him a moment. “ I like you to be with me. No, 
do not say anything complimentary, please — I was not 
angling for that ; I mean what I say. It brings back 
the old times and the faces I seem to have lost out of 
my life. That past is a dark memory enough, and 
yet it holds good things — Mrs. Abbott, Geoffrey, and 
dear little Leo. I can never regret its pain when I 
think of them.” 

“And does it hold no one else ?” he asks, jealously, 

“Ah, you were no friend of mine in those days. 
Do not deny it — I have an excellent memory for tns 
few who cared for me in that desolate time. And yoi 


297 


“ OAREIED BY STORM.” 

were not among tnem. Why should you hare been ? 

I was only an ugly and uncouth creature, rude in man- 
ner, and look, and speech. I was not of your world 
then. I am not now. No, the gap is not bridged over 
yet. Do you think I do not know it ? — do you think 
I do not know it never can be ? I am a singer, I am 
popular, I make money, if that is all — fashionable 
people like Mrs. Van Rensselaer ask me to their par- 
ties because I sing and amuse their guests. But 1 am 
nameless, homeless, a vagabond, and a wanderer. And 
to know who I am is the one unsatisfied desire, the one 
ceaseless longing of my heart. Surely I must have a 
name — surely in some veins the same blood must flow. 
There were the Sleafords — I do not know to this day 
whether they were related to me or not.” 

“ ‘A little more than kin, and less than kind,* *’ 
Livingston quotes. “What does rt matter, Joanna? 
You have hosts of friends who love you for yourself. 
You have made a name the world honors. Why 
regret what you may be better without knowing ?’* 

Her work has dropped, her hands clasp her kneoe 
as she leans forward, in the old fashion he remembers; 
her great eyes look dreamy, and wistful, and far 
off. 

“ I would give half my life to know. I will never 
rest until I know. The Sleafords I have lost sight 
of; even Lora had left, and gone West before I had 
reached Brightbrook. For the boys — it is doubtful it 
they could tell me anything, even if I found them. 
The secret of my life Giles Sleaford alone held, and 
he carried it with him into the grave. I would give 
all I possess to know. You cannot understand this— 
you who have always had name, and home, and ro* 
18 * 


298 


‘‘ CABIUBD BY iTOiaC.” 


latioQf^ and love— this ceaseless heart-hunger for some 
one to whom we belong. Ah, well ! it is folly to sigh 
over the inevitable. But all the same, it leaves me 
to-day what I was six years ago, and you — you had 
much better be wise, and go to Canada, and shoot 
moose ! The past weeks have been pleasant — yes — 
^ut they are over. Say good-by to-morrow, and do 

come to Newport.” 

“ I shall never be wise if that is wisdom,” he says, 
ioolly. “ I am always happiest when with you. Let 
me be happy in my own way. I shall make that 
filial visit, of course — that cannot be postponed — 
but I shall return and spend my summer at New- 
port.” 

She smiles and says no more. She resumes her 
work, and he his Browning. If Livingston cannot 
understand her, neither can she understand herself. 
All her life he has been in her eyes something dif- 
ferent from other men. In her ignorant youth he 
was the “ Prince Charming ” of her fairy tales. In 
her dreary girlhood a slight, a word from him could 
stab her as no other had power to stab. She does not 
understand why this should be — she only knows it is 
so. There is no reason why she should care for him. 
There are a hundred good and sound ones why she . 
should not. The fact remains — she does care for 
him; she will care for him possibly to her life’s end! 

That night is Miss Wild’s last appearance for the 
season, and that night the house is thronged with her 
admirers and friends. That night she is brilliant as 
she has never been brilliant before, as she never will 
be again, for it is the vi^ry last time she will ever face 
ap audience ! But though the does not know it, some 


'OAERIED BY STORM.” 390 

thrilled, excited feeling sends a streaming light into 
her eyes, a deep flush into her too-pale cheeks, a ringing 
sweetness and power into her voice. 

She sings as she has never sung before, She bears 
her audience away — she is recalled again and again, 
flowers are flung to her, the theater rings with excited 
applause. Foremost — wholly carried away, is Frank 
Livingston. Always excitable, the success of to-night 
turns his head. She is bewitching — she is a very 
queen of song — she is radiant in her triumph — she 
is irresistible ! Head and heart are in a tumult — this 
is love, and he will win her — this bewildering woman, 
who turns the brains of all men ! 

It is all over — it has been an ovation — and they 
are in her rooms — Herr Ericson and madame his wife, 
the Italian baritone, and Frank. In her trailing silks 
and laces, with sapphire ornaments, she looks abso- 
lutely handsome — she looks like a goddess in Living- 
ston’s dazzled eyes. They are alone in one of the softly 
lit rooms — her piano stands open, but it is he who 
strikes the silvery chords, looking up with eyes that 
flash in her smiling face. It is he who sings, in an ex- 
cited, exultant voice, the little song he purloined, the 
gong he first heard her sing at Mrs. Van Rensselaei a 
party : 

“ Do you think I am ever without you f 
Ever lose for an instant your face. 

Or the spell that breathes alway about you, 

Of your subtile, ineffable grace ? 

Why, even to-night, put away, dear, 

From the light of your eyes though I staad, 

I feel as I linger and pray, dear, 

The touch of your hand. 

** Ah, me 1 for a word that could move you 
Liko a whisper of magical art t 


JKX) ‘‘ CABRIED BT STOBM.*^ 

I love you I I love you 1 I love you I 
There is no other word in my heart. 

Will your eyes, that are loving, still love m« t 
Will your heart, once so tend% forgive ? 

Ah I darling, stoop down from above mo 
And tell me to live.” 

love you I 1 love you ! I love you I ” he cr.e<s^ 
and rising, takes both her hands in his feverish clasp, 
“ Joanna, I love you ! I always have from the first, 1 
think, but to-night you have carried my heart by 
storm I ” 

She does not speak. His flushed face, glowing 
eyes, and ringing voice, hardly lowered as he speaks 
the passionate words, tell her of the wild excitement 
within. 

“ My darling, stoop down from above me and tell 
me to live!’’ he repeats; “do you hear, Joanna? 
— I love you ! I tell you, you have carried my heart 
as you do your audience, by storm ! ” 

She stands silent. But the hands be clasps are not 
withdrawn ; the sweet, dark, tender eyes do not droop 
— they are fixed on his face. 

“ Silence is consent ! ” he gayly cries. He araws 
a ring off his little finger, and slips it on one of hers. 
“I bind you with this,” he says, “for to-night, to- 
morrow I will bring you a better.” 

He tries to clasp her, but she draws suddenly 
back. 

“ Oh, do not 1 ” she exclaims, almost in a voice of 
pain. 

They are the first words she has spoken, and there 
is a tone akin to terror in them. But she smiles a 
momant after and looks down at the ring. 


801 


LITTLi; LEO.” 

“ You are all my own,” Le says , ** I love you and 
I claim you. Wear that until to-morrow. My dar- 
sang and looked like an angel to-night.” 

“ Supper ish waiting,” says the stolid German voice 

stout Madame Ericson ; “ you had bettei come.” 

They go, and Livingston quenches hi£ fever and 
excitement in iced champagne. 

Somewhere in the small hours tae little party 
breaks up, and he goes home through the summer 
moonlight full of triumph and exultation, still hum- 
ming softly to himself the haunting words of the 
song. 

But long after he is asleep, long after she is for 
gotten, even in his dreams, Joanna sits in her room, 
and watches the slender yellow July morn lift itself 
over the black, silent streets, full of troubled pain and 
unrest. 

“ Carried by storm,” she repeats to herself ; ‘‘ car- 
ried his heart by storm ! Ah ! Frank Livingston, is it 
your heart, your fancy, your excitable imagination — 
what ? But whatever it is, my love — my love, I love 
you 1 ” 


CHAPTER V. 

‘‘little leo” 


TGHT brings counsel,” says the adage, and 
“ colors seen by candle-light do not look 
the same by day.” says the poet. Both 
are exceedingly true. Livingston rises 
next morning, and his first thought, as he recalls all 



302 


LITTLB LSO. 


(< 




that passed last night, is one of simple, at ter, intenM 
consternation. Carried away by the excitement of 
the moment, by the charm of her eyes, her voice, the 
appearance of the crowd, he has asked Sleaford’s 
Joanna to be his wife. The memory absolutely stuns 
him. All the fever of his throbbing pulses is allayed 
now, and he knows he no more is in love with her than 
he was with his cousin, Olga. Once again, as often 
before, his heated, hot-headed recklessness has played 
him false, his fickle fancy led him astray. He has 
asked the last woman in the world he should have 
asked to be his wife, and she has not said no. She 
has said nothing, he remembers that now ; but in these 
cases saying nothing is equivalent to saying yes. 

Well, his fate is fixed — he must be true to her he 
has asked ; she must never know of this revulsion of 
feeling — Sleaford’s Joanna must be his wife. It is 
thus she forces herself on his imagination — no longer 
as Jenny Wild, the singer, fair and stately, but wild, 
ragged, devil-may-care — she rises persistently before 
him. He does all he can to banish the memory — in 
vain. The image of the little barefoot tatterdemalion, 
the drudge of Sleaford’s, is the only image rebellioni 
recollection will bring up. And last night he told hef 
he loved her. 

It is with a very gloomy face, a very impaired 
appetite, Mr. Livingston sits down to his breakfast. 
He is not much of a hero, this fickle Frank — less of a 
hero than usual, even at this crisis of his life. But un- 
happily — or the reverse — the world is not made up ot 
heroes, and Livingston goes with the majority. What 
will his mother say, his fretful, ambitious fastidious 
mother? What will the Ventnors say? What will 


LITTLE LEO. 


308 


n 


>> 


Oiga? — Olga, who has always especially dislJted and 
distrusted Joanna — Olga, who has pride of birth 
enough for a royal princess. He can see the wonder, 
the incredulity, the scorn of the blue, chill eyes. 

But it is too late for all such thoughts, what is 
done cannot be undone, he has chosen and must abide 
by his choice. He must keep faith with her, and she 
deserves a much better man. She shall never suspect 
that he regrets. He will inform his mother — the 
sooner the better ; he will accept her wrath and her 
reproaches, he will marry Joanna out of hand, and 
hurry her away with him to Italy. That will look 
like flight, and flight will look like cowardice, but he 
has not much trust in his own moral courage. In 
Italy they can live as artists live— he certainly has 
nothing very brilliant to offer his bride — he will cast 
off the idleness of a life-time, and go to work with a 
will. Of course, Joanna must go on the stage no 
more ; poor he may be, but not so poor as to compel 
his wife to work for her living. 

“In Rome I can keep her on black bread and 
melon rinds ! ” he says, with a rather grim laugh, 
“ until fame and fortune find me out. She is the sort 
of woman, I think, to whom love will sweeten even 
black bread and melons. Though why she should care 
for me Heaven knows ! She is worth a million such 
weak-minded, vacillating fools as I am ! ” 

He takes his hat, and tries to clear the cloua trom 
his brow, and to look like his natural self, as he hurries 
through the sunlit, hot, hot, streets, tc Joanna’s cool, 
green-shaded, up-town bower. He is not very success- 
ful perhaps, or her eyes are not easily baffled, for in 
one long, grave* steadfast glance she reads all hia 


304 


LITTLE LBO.” 

trouble in his tell-tale face, then turns slowly away 
The rooms are littered with trunks, bags, boxes, and 
all the paraphernalia of a flittiLg. 

“ You find me in the midst of my exodus,” she 
lays, dropping his hand, and going on with her work. 
“ I always oversee my packing myself. So many 
things are sure to be left behind. Find a seat if you 
can, although it is hardly worth while to ask you. In 
ten minutes we start.” 

She is putting on her hat, and twisting a gray tissue 
vail around it, before the glass, as she speaks. Except 
that first earnest, searching look, she has not turned to 
him once, although there is no slightest change in her 
pleasant friendly manner. 

‘‘Joanna!” he begins, impetuously, a touch of 
remorse stinging him, “ you must still wear the ring 1 
gave you last night. I protest, I forgot until this mo- 
ment all about the other.” 

He does not think of all that his words imply. It 
is early hours for a lover to forget. She says nothing 
— her white slender hands are uplifted, arranging the 
hat. He glances at them, and sees no ring.” 

“ What 1” he says, “ you have taken it off already ?” 

“ Your ring ?” she says, quietly. “ Oh, yes, it was 
too large. Take it back, wear it again — pray do ; it 
is of no use to me. I may lose it, carrying it about, 
and indeed I cannot wear it. It is greatly too large 
for anything but my thumb.” 

She laughs, and holds it out to him. He can do 
nothing but take it. 

“ Very well, as you say, it must be too large ; I will 
send you a more suitable one before the week is out 


“little LEO.” 

I, too, am off this morning, Joanna, to hunt up my 
missing n^other, and tell her all !” 

She turns a little pale, but her eyes are fixed on ths 
glove she is buttoning. 

“ Pray do not,” she says, earnestly. “ Oh, pray do 
sot — just yet. Give me time, give yourself time. 
You are not sure of yourself — wait, wait ! There is 
no hurry. Truly, truly Frank, I would much rather 
you did not. Promise me you will not speak to your 
mother.” 

‘‘Carriage is waiting, Jenny, my dear,” says Pro 
fessor Ericson, popping in his bald head, “ and not a 
second to lose. Good-morning, Mr. Livingston. Time 
and trains, you know, wait not for any man.” 

“ Promise,” she exclaims, looking at him with those 
dark, intense, serious eyes. 

But he only smiles and clasps her gloved hands. 

“ I will write to you,” he says, “ and send you that 
ring. You will wear it, will you not ? I promise you 
it shall be pretty, and not too large. And do not let 
your countless admirers nor the dissipations of New- 
port make you forget during my enforced absence. I 
shall not be a day longer than I can help, and I shall 
have much to say to you of my — of our future plans, 
when next we meet.” 

Nothing more is said. He places her in the car- 
riage beside Madame Ericson, and leans forward to 
talk until it starts. It has not been a very lover-like 
meeting or parting, and he notices that Joanna is very 
pale as she leans out with a smile to wave her hand in 
adieu. Then they were out of sight, and he is thought 
fully stalking along to the depot to take the train to 
bis penitential destination. 


LITTLE LEO. 






It is a long, hot, dusty, disagreeable ride. Living- 
ston sits in the smoking-car, and plays euchre, and 
gets through unlimited cigars and newspapers, and the 
grimy hours as best he may. 

Twilight is falling, misty and blue, as he reaches 
his journey’s end, and, glad to stretch his legs a bit, 
he starts off briskly to walk to a hotel. The streets 
are crowded; the lamps are lit, and, twinkle through 
the summery gloaming. Suddenly there is a com- 
motion, a shouting, a scattering and screaming of the 
crowd. A pair of horses have taken fright at some 
thing, and started at a furious pace along the streets. 
There is a rushing and shrieking of women — the 
runaways dash across the sidewalk, upsetting every- 
thing and everybody, and lashing out at all obstacles. 
Stop them ! stop them ! shout a score of hoarse voices. 
They flash past Livingston like a black whirlwind, 
and he leaps aside barely in time. A young girl beside 
him is less fortunate. The carriage-pole strikes her, 
she is flung heavily to the ground, directly at his 
feet. The excited crowd dash by, heedless of the 
prostrate figure, and Livingston, stooping down, lifts 
her in his arms, and finds her insensible, and bleeding 
freely from a cut in the head. 

This is a situation ! He glances about in con- 
sternation, and sees near the glowing globes of a 
druggist’s. To hurry thither, to summon assistance, 
to place her in a chair, and support her there while 
the man of drugs examines her wounds, is but the work 
of a moment. 

“ A very nasty little cut,” the druggist says, “ and 
unpleasantly close to the temple. Still, she is not 
killed, and this wound will not amount to much if 


LITTLE LEO. 


307 


(( 


If 


ihe has received no other hurt. Knock»;d down by 
the ca? riage-pole, you say ? Poor young iady ! Hold 
up her head, sir, if you please; I will stop the 
bleeding, and bind up the cut with a strip of 
plaster.” 

Livingston obeys. He looks for the first time 
closely at the drooping face before him, and finds 
his interest and sympathy considerably heightened 
by the fact that it is an exceedingly pretty face, despite 
blood-stains and pallor. She is a very young creature, 
not more than sixteen to look at, with a dusk, sweet 
face, and quantities of wavy dark hair. The long 
lashes rest on ivory-pale cheeks. With gentle touch 
the druggist puts aside the loosened braids of hair, lo 
bind up the wound. Two lines he has read somewhere 
occur to Frank’s memory: 

“ Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 

How dark those hidden eyes must he 1” 

“ A .pretty little soul,” he thinks. “ I wonder who 
&he is, and what we are to do with her next ?” 

Even as he thinks it, there is a flutter of the droop- 
ing lids, a quiver through all the slight frame, and 
then slowly two dark, deep eyes unclose and look up 
in bewilderment into the strange faces bending over 
her — the faces of men. 

‘‘ Oh ! what is it ?” she says, shrinkingly. “ Where 

am I ? What has happened ? My head ” She puts 

up her hand in a frightened sort of way, and her lips 
begin to quiver like a child’s. “ Oh ! what is it ?” she 
says again. 

“ You were knocked down by a runaway horse — do 
you not remember ?” Livingston says, gently “ Tow 


808 


LITTLE LEO. 


u 




head is hurt a little, but not much, I hope. Do yoi 
feel hurt anywhere else ?” 

She looks at him — dark, solemn, childish eyes they 
Ere — and her lips quiver still. 

“I— I don't know. Oh I let me go home, please , 
I must go home !” She essays to rise, then falls back, 
with a little sob of pain. ‘‘ My foot hurts me,” she 
says, sobbing outright; “but, oh, please, I want to go 
home !” 

She is indeed like a child. Livingston takes her 
hand in both his, and tries to soothe her as he might 
a child. 

“ You shall go home ; do not be distressed, do not 
be afraid. I am sure you are not much hurt. I will 
take you home. Stay here, while I go and get a car- 
riage. I will not be a moment.” 

She looks up at him again, and to his utter amaze 
says this : 

“ I know you. You are Frank Livingston !” 

“ Good Heaven 1” the young man exclaims, stunned 
by this unexpected speech, “ and who are you ?” 

Instead of answering, she droops back in her chair, 
BO white, so death-like, that the druggist springs over 
his counter for a restorative. 

“ Never mind asking her questions now,” he says. 
“ Do you not see she is fainting ? Go for the carriage, 
and get her home as quick as you can. She ought to 
be put to bed, and attended to at once. She has had 
a severe shock.” 

Livingstcn obeys. In a moment he is out of the 
store — almost in another he is back with a cab. 

“ She is better again,” the shopman says. “ Take 
her home at onoe. It is at 37 Pine street, she says-^ 


“ LITTLE LEO.” 909 

mile off or more. Tell the man to dri^e very slowly, 
and as easy as he can. Her ankle is hurt, I think. You 
will have to carry her to the carriage.” 

This is neither difficult nor unpleasant. He lifts 
the light, youthful figure in his arms, and can-ies hei 
with infinite gentleness and care, and deposits her on 
the back seat. Then he gets in opposite her, gives the 
cabman the address, and they are driven slowly through 
the lamp-lit city streets. He looks at her in intense 
curiosity, as she sits before him, her head drooping 
against the back, her eyes closed, her face drawn into 
an expression of silent pain. He can ask her nothing 
now. She looks almost ready to faint away for a third 
time ♦ 

“ Poor little soul !” he thinks, exceedingly sorry for 
her — “ poor little pretty child. I wonder who she is, 
and how she comes to know me ?” 

But conjecture is useless ; he cannot place her 
Long before they reach 3 7 . Pine street, what he has 
feared comes to pass. She droops forward, and faints 
dead away from sheer exhaustion and pain. 

Livingston will never forget that drive ; it is al- 
ways twilight, lit with yellow stars of light, and the 
slender figure lying inert and senseless in his arms. 
They reach their destination at last — a cottage set 
in a pretty garden. A lady comes hurriedly out of the 
door as they draw up. There is still light enough to 
see her face plainly — a pale, handsome face — and 
Frank Livingston utters a cry. 

“ Good Heaven I” he exclaims, tor the second time, 
“ Mrs. Abbott, is it really you ?” 

His cry is echoed, and it is her only reply, tor she 
egtohes sight of the drooping figure in the earruige. 


810 


LITTLE LEO. 


(( 


>5 


Leo ! my Leo she cries out, ‘‘oh, what ii 
this ? What has h ippened ? Oh, great Heaven, is sht 
dead?” 

“ My dear Mrs. Abbott, no, only hurt a little, and 
unconscious just at present from the shock. Do not 
alarm yourself— indeed there is no need. Let me carry 
her in and send foi a doctor at once. I am sure she is 
not seriously hurt. I will tell you all about it in a 
moment.” 

He carries her into the parlor, and lays her on a 
sofa. In a moment Mrs. Abbott has recovered the 
self-repressed calm habitual to her. She give a few 
hurried directions to the driver, and then bends over 
her pale little daughter. 

“ I have sent for my son,” she says. “ I chance to 
know where he is. Frank Livingston, is this really 
you ?” She holds out one slim, transparent hand, and 
looks 'wonderingly in his face. “ Tell me all about it, 
and how you come to be with my little Leo like this.” 

“And it is Leo — little Leo ? ” he says, gazing down 
at the still white face, “ dear little Leo, and I did not 
know her. What a stupid dolt I grow. She recog- 
nized me at once. Accident has been good to me to- 
day, since it has thrown me in the way of the friends 
I have been longing for the past five years to meet.” 

He tells her what has happened in rapid words, and 
as he ends, a latch-key opens the hall-door, and a 
young man hurriedly enters. 

“ An accident ? ” he says, in alarm. “ Leo hurt ? 
Mother, what is this ? ' 

It is Geoffrey Lamar. He kneels beside his still in- 
sensible sister, without a glance at the stranger, pals 
with alarnd) I takes her wrist 


LITTLE LEO.” 811 

** Gee ffrey, look here,” his mother says, “ do you «ot 
recognize your friend ? ” 

“Frank!” 

He springs to his feet and holds out both hai/ds. 

“ Dear old Geoff ! ” 

And then there is a long, strong, silent clasp, t 
^®Dg, glad, affectionate gaze. Then Geoffrey returns to 
Leo. 

“ What is this ? ” he asks again. “ Whal has hap- 
pened to Leo ? ” 

Livingston repeats his story, and in a moment Dr. 
Lamar is in action. He carries his sister up to her 
room, followed by his mother, while Frank sits below 
and anxiously waits. He looks out across the darken- 
ing flower-beds to the starry sky and thinks how 
strangely, after all these years, he has found his friends. 
Half an hour passes before Geoffrey returns. 

“ Well ? ” Frank anxiously says. 

“ It is not particularly well, still, it might have been 
worse. The shock is more to be apprehended than the 
hurts — she is a tender little blossom, our poor Leo. 
She has injured her ankle, in addition to the cut in her 
bead. How fortunate you chanced to be on the spot. 
Thank you, Frank, for helping my little sister.” 

He holds out his hand, all the love his heart holds 
for that little sister shining in his eyes. Livingston 
takes it, and gazes at him. What a distinguished - 
looking fellow he is, he thinks, how gallant a gentleman 
he looks, how thoroughbred, how like his mother in that 
erect and stately poise of the head, that c^ear, steady 
glance of the eye. 

^ You have not changed in the least, Frank,” Geoffrey 
l(»yi. I would have kuowa you anywhere,’’ 


S12 


JOAN BENNETT. 


(( 

YmJL have changed, old fellow,” Frank retarnS) 
‘‘bat not for the worse. And so you have been here 
all the time, our next-door neighbor almost, while I 
have been looking for you high and low. What paper 
walls hold us asunder ! What are you about ? Prac- 
ticing your profession ? ” 

“ As you see, and after an up-hill struggle enough, 
conquering fate at last, I am happy to say. And now 
that you have found us, we mean to keep you for a 
while,” Dr. Lamar says, gayly. “ So make up your 
mind to stay until further notice. Our mansion is not 
particularly commodious, as you may see, but we al- 
ways manage to have a spare room for a friend. And 
of all the friends of the old time, my dear fellow, you 
know not one can be more heartily welcome than your- 
self.” 

There is little pressing needed. Frank does object, 
but those objections are easily overruled. It puts off 
the evil hour of maternal tears and reproaches, and 
that is something. So he stays, and his secret will b^ 
his secret for a few days longer, at least. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“JOAN BENNETT.’’ 

ANNA sits in almost total silence during 
the short drive to the depot. The look in 
Livingston’s eyes haunts her, the forced 
gayety of his tone has struck on her heart 
like a blow. She has known it will be there sometime, 



313 


** JOAJSf BENKBTT.” 

but not 80 soon, not the very morning after his im- 
pulsive declaration. 

“Carried by storm.” Ah, but not held long. 
More than he has yet felt himself she has read in his 
face — pain, regret, the resolution to make the best at 
all cost of the most fatal words of his life. 

Professor Ericson chatters like a German magpie , 
luckily, like the magpie, he waits for no answer. 
They reach the station barely in time to get tickets, 
checks, and seats, and then are off through the jubi- 
lant sunshine of the brilliant summer morning. Madame 
Ericson composes herself by a shady window with a 
German novel ; the professor goes off to the smoking 
car, and Joanna is left undisturbed to gaze at the fly- 
ing landscape, and muse over lovers who propose in 
haste and repent just as hastily. As it chances — if 
things ever chance — her seat is near and facing the car 
door. As it opens to admit the conductor on his 
roubds, her glance alights for a second on the figure 
of a brakeman standing on the platform. 

She leans forward, with a sudden eager interest 
that drives even her lover from her mind, to look 
again. Surely, that strong, tall figure, and all that 
blue-black curly hair, are familiar. He turns for a 
moment, sending a careless glance backward to where 
she sits, and Joanna sinks back in her seat with a gasp. 

For years she has been seeking him vainly, and he 
stands before her now, when no one could be farther 
from her thoughts. 

They are near New York before Herr Ericson re- 
turns. Joanna seizes upon him at once. 

“ There is a brakeman on board this train that I 
know,” she says, eagerly, want to him — I 

H 


814 


“ JOAN BENNBTT.” 

mast see him, and you will please hunt him up for mOj 
and tell him so. Perhaps you have seen him — & tall, 
dark, good-looking young man. He was out there not 
half an hour ago.” 

The professor stares a moment, then laughs. 

‘‘ Mein Gott ! She wants to see the handsome 
young brakemaii ! Shall I tell him to call on Miss 

Jenny Wild, the celebrated vocalist, or ” 

“ Look ! look ! There he is,” Miss Wild exclaims, 
unheeding, “ standing on the platform. No, do not 
speak to him until Madame and I are in the carriage ; 
then give him my card and tell him to appoint an hour, 
and I will be at home to receive him. Say no more than 
that ; he will not refuse, I am sure ; he will be too curi- 
ous. It is the roost fortunate thing in the world ; he is 
a person I have been wishing to see for years and years ” 
They rise and leave the train, find a hack, and take 
their seats, always with an eye on the tall, dark young 
brakeman. He is a handsome fellow, as he leans in an 
attitude of careless strength against the car, his straw 
hat pushed back off his sunburned, gypsy face, a red 
handkerchief knotted loosely about his throat. 

“ He might stand as a model for a Roman bandit, 
at this moment,” Joanna thinks, with a smile ; “the 
dark and dashing brigand of romance. There ! the 
professor has accosted him, and now — see the profound 
astonishment depicted on his face ! ” she laughs softly, 
as she watches the puzzled amaze of the young man, 
and that laugh clears away the last of the vapors. 
After all, Frank Livingston has not hurt her very 
badly, judging by that clear laugh. 

Ho will come,” says the professor, returning, and 
hil w^irw f^e, but h« it » gres^tiy bewildered 


“ /OAN BENNETT.” 815 

foung man. He denies knowing any Miss Jenny 
Wild — thinks she must be mistaken in supposing she 
Knows him, but will be at her service, if she likes, in 
an hour. I told him that would do — will it ?” 

"Admirably,” Joanna says, still laughing. “I saw 
his incredulity in his face ; he is watching us distrust- 
fully at this moment. An hour is short notice ; but 
short or long, I shall be most exceedingly glad to see 
him.” 

Promptly at the hour’s end, the young brakeman, 
in much the same costume as on the car, with the 
addition of a linen coat, presents himself at the cottage 
and inquires for Miss Jenny Wild. He is ushered 
into a pretty parlor, and in the subdued light, sees 
advancing a tall and elegant-looking young lady in 
navy-blue silk, with a creamy white rose in her hair, 
a smile of welcome on her lips, and one hand extended. 
She stands without a word before him. The young 
man stands in turn, and gazes, more puzzled perhaps 
than he has ever been before in his life. She is the 
first to speak. 

"Well,” she says, laughing outright, " will you not 
•hake hands ?” 

"Z don’t mind,” the young fellow answers, and 
takes in his great brown paw the slim, cool member 
she extends, " but I’ll be blessed if I know you ! And 
yet it does seem to me I’ve seen you before, too.” 

" I should think so — seen me, felt me, boxed my 
ears many a time and oft 1” 

"What !” 

"Ah 1 you would not do it now, I dare say. Yoi 
are mucfe too gallant, no donbt, but enob is fi^ 


J0AN BENNETT. 


m 




Look \erj hard, Judson. Surely five yearn canuoi 
have changed me bo very much.” 

“By Jupiter !” Judson Sleaford shouts, “it is— it 
i»«»-our Joanna !” 

“Your Joanna — Sleaford's Joanna — Wild Joanna! 
Yes — Miss Jenny Wild now, though, to all the rest of 
the world. Dear old Jud ! how glad I am to see you 
at last !” 

He holds her hands and stands gazing at her, eyes 
and mouth wide with wonder. 

“Joanna! Our Joanna ! got up like this — a swell 
— a high-toned young lady — dressed in silk and roses ! 
Well, by George ! And here I’ve been looking for 
you high and low for the past five years ! Upon my 
soul, Jo, I can hardly believe my eyes ? it you ? 
Why, you used to be ugly, and now I swear you 
are ” 

“ Ugly still, Jud — fine feathers make fine birds, 
that is all. But sit down, I am dying for a long, long 
chat with you. Dear old fellow, how nice, and brown, 
and well you are looking !” 

She draws forward a puffy chair of satin and 
springs, and Judson Sleaford sinks down on it. But 
his black eyes are still riveted on Joanna’s face ; he 
cannot believe them. He is trying to recall the bare- 
footed^ red-haired, fiercely-scowling child he remembers 
so well, and place her side by side frith this smiling, 
charming, “ high-toned ” lady, so good to look at, and 
make one of the two. And he cannot. No maa 
could. Every trace of that Joanna is gone ! 

“I can*t believe it,” he cries out. “It is all a 
fraud ! It isn’t Joanna at all. You can’t be. Why, 
ihe had red hair, and yon — 


JOAK BEirCTETT. 


S17 


c< 


5? 


•^Have red hair still — not so rosy though as in 
those days. Don’t stare so, Jud. Your eyes will 
drop on the carpet ! It is I, myself—I, Joanna— no 
other. I wish it were.” 

“ Why ?” bluntly — ‘‘ why should you wish it ? i 
think you are one of the luckiest girls that ever was 
born.” 

Do you ?” she says, a tinge of bitterness in her 
tone. Because I wear silk dresses and live in a New- 
port cottage ? W ell, it is better certainly than life at 
the Red Farm, but as for being the luckiest girl ever 
b®rn ” 

‘‘ What do you call it then ?” he demands — “ having 
the fortune of a princess left you in this way? By 
Jove ! I call it the greatest stroke of luck that ever 
was heard of, out of the Arabian Nights.” 

Joanna stares in turn. 

“ The fortune of a princess ? What do you mean ? 
Zhave had no fortune left me. I sing for my living, 

and make a very good one, but as for fortune Well, 

pay for my dresses, and so on, and have some pocket- 
money left, if you call that the fortune of a princess.” 

It has seemed that by no possibility can Judson 
Sleaford stare harder than he has been doing, bat at 
these words he absolutely gasps. 

“ Do — do you mean to say,” he demands, as soon 
AS he can speak, ‘Uhat you don’t know?” 

‘‘ Don’t know what ?” 

“ Good Lord above I Do you mean to tell me 
Geoffrey Lamar never hunted you up after all?” 

“ Geoffrey Lamar ? T have not seen or heard of 
Geoffrey Lamar since I left Brightbrook nearly six 

years ago ” 


818 


JadsoD Sleaford falls back in his chair, and leaks 
helplessly at her. 

“ And all this — this cottage and furniture, and that 
dress, and — and everything — do you mean to say you 
work for and earn all that ?” 

“ I work for and earn all that. I have never had 
a penny I did not work for and earn. I do not know 
what you are talking about. I wish you would cease 
staring and explain,’’ cries Joanna, almost losing 
patience. 

Jud takes out his red handkerchief and wipes his 
heated face. His amazement at finding Wild Joanna 
in this stately young lady, walking in silk attire, is 
not for a moment to be equaled by the amazement he 
feels at finding her ignorant of who she is. Mingled 
with the amaze is delight that it has been reserved for 
him to tell her. 

“ Then, by thunder, this is the luckiest day’s work, 
Joanna, you have done in a long time ! Just let me 
catch my breath, will you, and don’t hurry me. I’ll 
tell you everything directly, everything you’ve been 
wanting to know all your life. First of all let me ask 
you some questions. You know rich John Abbott 
shot himself ?” 

“ Yes, I know that. Poor Mrs. Abbott.” 

“ Ah ! poor Mr. Abbott, I should say. You don’t 
happen to know why he did it ?” 

“ Certainly not. I only saw it in the papers, and 
the reason assigned was temporary aberration of 
intellect.” 

“Yes, jest so. Temporary fiddlestick ! He knew 
what he was about — he was going to be found out, 
and was afraid of the law and his high and mighty 


‘^JOAN BENNBTT.” SIC 

missis. So he put a bullet through Lis braioj and 
got out of it that way. Then — do you know 'what 
Mrs. Abbott and young Lamar did then ?” 

“Shut up Abbott Wood and left the place. Yes, 
but even that I only discovered a few weeks ago. One 
can hardly wonder — so sensitive as Mrs. Abbott was, 
and after so shocking a tragedy. I am not surprised 
she has never returned. But where are they, Jud- 
son?” 

“You would like to see them?” he asks, looking 
at her curiously. “ You are as fond of them as 
ever ?” 

“ Can you ask ? They were my friends when I 
had not a friend in the world. They did all they 
could to lift me out of the misery and degradation 
they found me in. As fond of them as ever ! I tell 
you, Judson Sleaford, I would lay down my life for 
Mrs. Abbott.” 

“Ah!” Jud says, in a peculiar tone, “and for 
Geoffrey Lamar ?” 

“ And for Geoffrey Lamar. What I am to-day I 
owe to them. All I have, or ever may have, I owe to 
them. Why do you look like that, and speak like 
that ? What do you know of them ? Tell me where 
they are, if you know that.” 

“ I don’t know that. And you need not be in a 
rush to find them as far as they are concerned. I dan 
say, if the truth was known, you’re about the last per- 
son in this world they want to see. Why, I heard 
Geoffrey Lamar as good as swear to find you, if you 
were above ground, and restore you to your rights, and 
this is the way he keeps his word !” 

“Heard him swear I Swear to whom ?” 


320 ‘^JOAN BENKETT.^^ 

To dad~poor old chap — the night he died." 

And restore me to my rights ? What are you 
talking of, Jud ?" she asks, in a maze of wonder. 

I’m talking of what I heard with my own ears, 
though nobody knows to this day I heard it. Fm talk- 
ing of what I heard dad tell young Lamar on his death- 
bed, and young Lamar swore to tell you. He hasn’t 
done it, it seems. Dad sent for him to do justice to 
you at last, and tell him what hold he had over his 
step-father, who you were, and let him right you, see- 
ing he was your friend." 

Who you were ! ’’ She hears those words and 
starts to her feet. She stands before him, her hands 
clasped, her eyes wild and wide, her lips breathless 
and apart. 

Who I am ! Judson — at last ! ’’ 

Oh ! don’t be in a hurry, Joanna. I don’t know 
whether you will like it or not when you know — so 
fond as you are of Mrs. Abbott, too. I tell you it 
knocked Lamar over like a bullet. If ever you saw a 
corpse take a walk — I don’t suppose you did — he looked 
like that when he left the house. But he believed what 
he was told, and dad gave him the paper that proved 
your father and mother’s marriage, and your baptism, 
out in San Francisco. He needn’t deny it, for I saw 
it all, if you ever have to go to law about it — and I 
would, by Jupiter ! Fortunes like that don’t go beg- 
ging every day, and you’re the rightful heiress of every 
stick, and stone, and penny. Fight it out, J oanna, and 
I’ll stand to you through thick and thin." 

^^But who — who — who am I ?" Joanna cries out. 
‘‘ Tell me that — never mind the rest. Who am I ? " 

Oh, I forgot," Jud gays, coolly and slowly. Your 


THE STOBT. 


m 

name is J oan Bennett, and you’re the eldest daughter, 
and sole heiress, of the late John Abbott, Esa., mil' 
lionaire !” 


CHAPTER VII. 



THE STOKY. 

w. OU see, it was the night dad died,” says Jud 
Sleaford. “You know about that, don’t 
you ? It all began about you. You had 
run away with Blake while dad was away 
*.ttending a prize-fight. When he came home, and 
beard of it — it was the very dickens of a day, I re- 
member, in the way of wind and rain — he just mounted, 
and rode straight as a die for Abbott Wood. I reckon 
he thought Mr. Abbott had made off with you, or had 
some hand in it. He was stone white with rage. What 
would have happened there and then, if Abbott had 
been at home, the Lord only knows. He was not, and 
dad came back, in one of his black rages. But it 
leems he had left word for Abbott to follow ; and 
Abbott did follow that very same night.” 

Jud is rapidly telling his story, and a very vivid 
narrator he is. The first overwhelming shock of sur- 
prise is over, and Joanna sits listening, pale, breathless, 
absorbed. 

“ We were a 0 off to a dance, I remember,” goes on 
judson, “ only the girl was at home. Early in the 
morning, as we were driving back, we were met by old 
Hunt — you know, next place to ours — with the word 
that there had been a row at our house, and that dad 
was done for. We hurried on, and there we found 
H* 


822 


THE STOEY. 


him^ poor old fellow, ‘ weltering in his gore,’ as tut 
stories put it, and almost at the last gasp. Almoit, 
but not quite. Dad was so uncommon strong, that h€ 
gave death a tough tussle for it before he would go 
We got him to bed, sent for the doctor, and from first 
to last I was his nurse. The girls were afraid of him, 
he was as savage sick as well, poor old dad, and Dan- - 
but you know what Dan was — he wouldn’t be paid to 
enter the room. 

Well — I took care of dad. I gave him his medi- 
cines and his drinks, and that, and did the best I knew 
for him. By and by he got back his voice, and the 
first thing he says was : ‘Send for the young swell — 
young Lamar.’ 

“ ‘ Abbott’s step-son ?’ I says, for, of course, we all 
kcew from the girl that Abbott had been there, and 
that it was in a fracas with him he had got his death- 
blow. And dad’s eyes shot out sparks of fire after their 
old fashion. 

“ ‘ Can’t you hear, you fool ?’ he says, in a fierce 
whisper. ‘ Abbott’s step-son, young Lamar. Go for 
him, bring him here at once. I have something he 
ought to know to tell him. He must come.’ 

“ Of course, I went. It was another pelting storm, 
and when I got to the house I saw the missis. I gave 
her the mess^e. Young Lamar was in New York, but 
she telegraphed for him at once, and tnat same after 
noon, just before dark, he came, and I took him up- 
stairs to dad’s room. 

“ Now dad, although he was dying as fast as he 
could, kept up a wonderful deal of strength to the very 
last. His voice sounded much as ever, a little weaker, 
bat to hear him yoa would never know he wm ao near 


THE 8T0BY. 


his end. And he had worked himself up into a fever, 
waiting for Lamar. He could not die, he said, until he 
had seen him. I brought the young fellow in, and 
offered to fetch a light, but dad wouldn’t have none. 
He ordered me out of the room, and I went, but only 
as far as the closet where we hang clothes. You re- 
member how thin the partitions were, and the holes in 
the lath and plastering ? I was curious to know what 
he had to say so particular. I was sure it was some 
revenge he was going to take on John Abbott. I sat 
there and listened, Joanna, and found out all about it 
and you at last.” 

There is a brief, breathless pause. Jud draws a long 
breath. J oanna hardly seems to breathe or stir. 

“ Oh, go on ! ” she says, in a whisper, and young 
Sleaford resumes. 

“I’ll tell it in my own way — not in dad’s — he 
cursed a good deal, you know, and abused Abbott. 
You won’t care for that. It seems that long before, 
when Abbott was quite a young man, and just begin- 
fciing to get on in California, dad came there, a widower, 
i»'ith all of us, from Liverpool, and a sister of his with 
him, who took care of us. This sister, it appears, was 
a good-looking young woman, and John Bennett — 
that was Abbott’s name then, and his right name — 
took a fancy to her, and her to him, and he made her 
his wife. His wife, mind you, all right, and tight, and 
legal. Well — he lived with her for a while, and was 
good enough to her and that, and gave dad a helping- 
hand as well, and then all of a sudden he started off 
somewhere up country to the mines, on a spec, in- 
tending to come back all fair and square when his 
basinesfi was settled, and not meaning desertion, or 


824 


THE STOBT. 


anythicg like that. But that’s what it proved to be—* 
he did not come back — dad never set eyes on him 
again till he set eyes on him as the rich John Abbott, 
«»£ Brightbrook, and his wife never saw him in thi» 
world more. Whether they have met in the next is 
more than I know ; she was alive and well on tvhe 
night dad told the story. 

“Well, Bennett — or Abbott, whichever you like — 
had struck a vein of luck up there in the hill country, 
among the mines, and wasn’t coming back. It was a 
wild region, no women there, and he didn’t want to 
fetch his wife. So he wrote ; all honest and square, 
you see, at first, and sent money. Then the wife had 
a baby — yh^a — and got a fever of some sort after, and 
went straight stark out of her mind. At first hei 
husband was anxious about her, got nurses and so on 
but after a time, as that seemed to do no good, h( 
sent word to dad to put her in an insane asylum, anc 
he would pay the damage. The young one — you agaii 
— was to be put out to nurse, and be took proper car< 
of. It — you again — was christened Joan, after it- 
mother, Joan Bennett. Bennett didn’t come himself 
you understand — was too busy making money, but he 
«ent the needful to dad, and dad obeyed so far as t( 
put his sister in the asylum, and pocket the money sen 
for you. Things went on like that for a couple o 
years, then all at once Bennett disappears, and fron 
that day not a trace of him was to be found. Afte. 
that dad went to the bad. While Bennett sent mone 
it was well enough, but dad always hated work, ant 
ihirked it, so poverty came, and he dodged about wit» 
us ’uns from pillar to post, until at last, after som^ 
uiue years of it, he settled us in a wild part of Pens 


THE STOBT. 


320 


sylvania to shift for ourselves, and staited off himself 
on the tramp. There’s a fate in these things, maybe 
He tramped along until he came to Brightbrook, and 
th^e, of course, one of the first people pointed out tc 
him was the rich man of the place, Mr. John Abbott. 
Of course dad knew his man at a look. There he was, 
as large as life, as rich as Rothschild, with a new wife, 
a new daughter, a new name, and a step-son. The 
other wife, the lawful wife, was alive and well, out in 
San Francisco, as dad knew, and here he was, a bloom- 
ing bigamist, with proudest, piousest lady in the land, 
for number two. 

“Well, dad was tickled, you may believe. Al’ 
this time he had kept you, not because he ^wanted yoUj 
or cared about you, but because he didn’t know what 
to do with you. You were a trump-card in his hand 
now. 

“ He took a night, and thought it all over, before 
he showed himself. Abbott was in his power, he 
knew, but be did not dislike Abbott, and he made up 
his mind not to be too hard on him, to get a good liv- 
ing out of him, and let him off at that. He didn’t 
bear no malice, he didn’t want to show Abbott up, 
there was nothing to be gained by that, there was 
everything to be gained by holding his tongue. Dad 
didn’t want to be a gentleman, and rob Abbott out- 
right, he only wanted to be flush in his own way. As 
to deserting bis crazy wife, and taking up with this 
handsome lady, dad didn’t blame him for that either, 
it was only what he would have done himself. As to 
you, he made up his mind to say you were dead He 
didn’t quite know why, but he thought that if Abbott 
guessed who you were he might try to spirit 


826 


THE STORY. 


away. Then, when he had thought it well out, and 
aettled his plans, he waylaid Abbott, in company with 
Colonel Ventnor, and I heard him laugh as he* told 
Lamar that night — ay, dying as he was, he laughed, 
when he thought how struck of a heap John Abbott 
was when he first saw his face. After that I needn’t 
tell you what followed. He got the Red Farm give 
to him, sent for us ’uns, and settled us all there. You 
know the life we led, jolly for us, but deuced hard for 
you, I must say. Dad owned he fairly hated you after 
that, why he didn’t know, but he did. All the hate he 
might have bestowed on your father, he gave to you ; 
JO you were ill-treated morning, noon, and night. 
A.nd I’m ashamed to say by me as well as the rest. I 
jisk your pardon now, Joanna.” 

The young fellow says it with real feeling ; he is 
honestly sorry, and she sees it. She gives him her 
hand, and he starts to find how cold it is. 

“ You need not,” she says. “ You alone never 
were cruel to me, Judson! But, oh, my childhood ! 
my youth ! What a childhood, what a youth has 
been mine !” 

“Ah !” Judd says, with a hard breath of sympathy. 
“Well then, the next was the coming of Geoffrey 
Lamar, and the sudden interest he took in you. Per- 
haps John Abbott suspected — nobody knows — he re- 
fused to let you come to Abbott Wood. You remem- 
ber the evening Lamar came and told you so ? Dad 
took the matter in hand, through pure contrariness 
and cussedness, as he owned ; he went to the big 
house, and he made Abbott let you come. His wife 
should look after you,, and nobody else ; his daughter 
should be your oompaHicn ; his high-toned step-sos 


THE STOET. 


327 


jrour friend. And he had his wa’^ And now, 
whether Mrs. Abbott suspected or not, I don’t know — 
that’s what I’ve puzzled over many a time since. Did 
she suspect, and did she do all that kindness to you to 
quiet her conscience, knowing she was wronging you 
all the time ? I can’t make it out. Them fine ladies 
will do a great deal sooner than lose their money and 
position. Was she one of them, or not? As to 
Lamar, Ido believe it was all news to him. I tell you 
he looked like a corpse. And no wonder. There it 
was ! his mother was not that man’s wife — a fellow 
like that, that at his best w^as like the dirt under her 
feet ; his little sister was a — illegitimate ; and they 
were prouder than Lucifer ! You can guess how 
Geoffrey Lamar felt as he sat and listened to the story 
of his mother’s disgrace, told by the lips of a dying 
man.” 

Joanna has covered her face with her hands. Oh ’ 
sue can guess it — the shame, the horror, the appalling 
force of that most horrible blow ! Oh, Geoffrey ! 
truest friend ! noblest heart that ever beat ! and thU 
was his reward for saving her ! 

“ When you ran away with Blake,” goes on Jud, 
“dad suspected foul play on the part of Abbott, 
thought he had a hand in the business, and went there 
at once. That night they had it out. Dad had the 
certificates of your mother’s marriage and your baptism, 
and swore to expose Abbott. There was a struggle. 
Abbott strove to master dad, and get them. Dad 
pulled out a knife, and would have stabbed Abbott 
without doubt, but that he slipped forward, fell or 
his own weapon, and stabbed himself. T hen Abbe tt 
fled. At first dad did not realize bow badly he wai 


328 


THE 8T0BT. 


hurt, and had strength enough left to replace the 
papers in their hiding-place before he called for 
help. But the girl was frightened and wouldn’t 
come. He tried to crawl from the room, but fainted, 
it seems, from loss of blood. There he lay, wounded 
and bleeding, until morning — if he had been cared for 
in time he could have lived, not a doubt about it. 
And that was the story be had to tell Geolffrey Lamar 
He gave him the papers, told him where to find your 
mother, and so sent him away. I saw young Lamar 
as he left the house — I never want to see a face look 
like that again. 

“ That night dad died, but first of all he cleared 
John Abbott of any share in his death. I suppose he 
thought he had had revenge enough. And so he 
had. 

‘‘ Well, we buried poor old dad. I never said a 
word to anybody — it was no good, I had no proofs; 
Lamar had them, and you were gone. Abbott carried 
things with a high hand with Dan, turned us out as 
fast as we could bundle. And I don’t wonder. For 
my part, I was ready to go. I was tired of life on 
the farm. Lora married, Liz came to town, Dan went 
to sea, and I drifted up to the city. Then, one morn- 
ing, about six weeks after, I picked up a paper, and 
the first thing I saw was the suicide of the rich man 
of Brightbrook — nobody knew why. But I knew. 
I wrote to Lora, and heard how Mrs. Abbott and her 
son and daughter had left the place, and that Abbott 
Wood was shut up. It has been shut up ever since. 
It stands there to-day, and you are its mistress, and 
heiress by right of every penny John Abbott — oi 
Bennett—* has left.” 


THE STORY. 


m 


Her hands drop, she is deadly pale, her eyes burn 
in the fixed pallor of her face. 

“As for Lamar, it is strange,” Jud continues, 
slowly, “ and yet, perhaps it is not strange either. He 
promised dad, on his word of honor, he would hunt 
you up, and see you restored to your rights, and he 
has not done it. You see, to do it, all the world would 
have to know of his disgrace, and his mother’s and 
Leo’s, and they all are so infernally proud. Still, 
Lamar seemed the sort of fellow to do right at any 
price, and not stop to count the cost. He hasn’t this 
time, it seems. It must have been a tremendous blow 
to Mrs. Abbott. I wonder where they are ? In Europe 
somewhere, I suppose, flourishing on your money. It 
ain’t fair, by Jove, and I’d hunt them up if I was you, 
and have my rights. Your mother’s living, or was 
then — you can find and bring her forward, and I’ll 
swear to all I’ve told you. Possession is nine points 
of the law, they say, and they have that and the 
money, still ” 

“I must find them !” Joanna cries; “ but oh I not 
for that — not for that ! I must find my mother — 
my mother! mine! that I — I, Sleaford’s Joanna, 
should have a mother ! Oh, Judson, help me — I must 
find n»y mother at once, at once, at once !” 

“ And the fortune ?” says Judson, looking at her 
curiously. 

“ The fortune ! Ah, dear Heaven, what is fortune, 
a thousand fortunes, to that ? To find my mother I 
my poor, lonely, imprisoned mother ! And I must find 
Mrs. Abbott and Geoffrey Lamar. What they must 
have suffered ! Ah, what they must have suffered 1” 

“ And what they have kept — don’t forget that They 


830 


THE STORT. 


have the fortune all this time. And they never «ooked 
tor you.” 

“ They have — they must . I will not believe it. Oh ! 
if they were not good, not noble, not unselfish, then 
there is no goodness, no nobility, no unselfishness on 
earth. I will not believe it. Mrs. Abbott never knew. 
I would stake my life on that. Geoffrey has looked 
for me — I believe it as I believe in heaven. To doubt 
them would be for me ruin. I could no more have 
faith in honesty or truth on earth. Oh ! 1 shall find 
them ; I shall know no rest until I have found and 
comforted them, as much as I can comfort — until in 
ever so little I have returned to them what they so 
freely, so generously gave to me. The bread they cast 
upon the waters shall return to them ; the waif they 
tried to rescue shall prove her gratitude and love. And 
Leo is my sister — dear, dear, dearest little Leo ! Oh, 
my God ! what a grateful heart I ought to have this 
day — what a happy girl I ought to be ! And I am. 
I will find them — I will comfort them. I will find my 
mother — I will devote my life to her. Help me, Jud 
— ^help me in this, and thank you, thank you a hundred 
times for what you have told me to-day !” 

Her face is transfigured ; it is, young Sleaford 
thinks in wonder and awe, like the face of an angel — 
lit with love, wet with tears, more than beautiful, with 
the beauty of a noble, a true, a grand, unselfish soul. 

“ I will do all I can,” he says, rising. “ I didn’t 
think you would take it like this. I will hunt the 
world over if you say so Joanna, you’re a trump, 
and no mistake ! ” 

“ Come this evening ” she says ; give me nntl' 
then to thinK” 


HOW JOATTNA CAME BACK. 


331 


She sinks down, and once more covers her face. 
And so Jiidson leaves her, with bated breath, and 
hushed footfall, and solemn — feeling a sensation upon 
him as though he were going out of church. 

But in the garish sunshine, in the bustling, busy 
outer world, his old self returns as he sets his hat 
rakishly on his mop of blue-black hair. 

“ I’m blessed if I ever see any one so changed,” ht 
thinks in wonder; “she’s no more like that Joanna 
than — than I’m like an archbishop. We did our best 
to spoil her, and a little more might a’ done it, only 
there’s some sort canH be out and out spoiled, do what 
you will, and she’s one. She’s a stunner — she’s a brick 
— she’s fit to be an angel, and with the angels stand. 
But for all that, Lamar and his mother will wish her 
at the dickens the day she hunts ’em up. It’s nature — 
I would myself, in their place.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 

FF,” Leo says, with some hesitation, 
what is the matter with Frank ?” 

“ Matter with Frank ?” repeats Geof- 
•ey, looking up from the evening paper, 
abstractedly, “ there is nothing the matter with Frank. 
He looks in very good health.” 

“ I don’t mean his health,” returns little Leo, pout- 
ing, “ I mean — I mean his looks. A person may have 
fomething the matter with Jiim, and still his liver and 
lungs be all right.” 



332 


HOW JOANNA CAME dAOK. 


Oh, you mean the secret sorrow sort of thing, dc 
you?” with an amused look. “Well — yes — come tc 
think of it, Livingston does look a trifle hipped — as if 
he had gotten a facer, somehow, in the set-to with life. 
But it is only what he must expect, as well as the rest 
of us,” says Dr. Lamar, philosophically, going oack tc 
his paper. “ As we ride onward in life, care mounts 
the crupper with most of us.” 

“ It seems odd it should with him,” Leo says, half 
to herself, and with a touch of regret. “ Whenever I 
wished to recall the happiest, brightest face of old times, 
his was the one that always started up. It never used 
to wear a cloud. And now ” 

“ I see typhoid is spreading,” remarks Dr. Lamar, 
glancing up from his sheet, “ and two or three cases of 
malignant typhus have appeared. This looks badly 
and th3 sanitary state of this city is a disgrace to ” 

But Leo does not wait for the conclusion of this 
uninteresting speech. She has caught a glimpse of 
some one coming up the road, and starts to her feet ; 
she knows that tall, graceful figure, that negligent 
walk. 

Brother and sister have been for some time out here 
m the scented summer dusk. Mamma is reading one 
of her pious little books in her room, and their grest 
went to the city in the afternoon. It wht..i guest 
who approaches, with a certain air of weariness and 
boredom, now. In his hand he carries a large bouquet, 
whose fragrance heralds his approach. 

“ Ah, Livingston,” Geoffrey says, genially, “ back I 
Good evening. Were you successful? Did you find 
your mother ?” 

“ No,” Frank says, moodily, “ I did not. There ii 


eow JOANNA CAME BACK. 


333 


a fatality In it, I think. It has oeen a regular game of 
hide and seek. She left yesterday for Saratoga 
Where is Le# 

The sound of the piano in the dusk of the parloi 
answers. Leo is well enough to limp about all day, 
and sing in the twilight. Hers is a voice like herself, 
low, and soothing, and sweet, suited to nothing more 
pretentious than little home songs and tender love dit- 
ties. It is one of these she sings now, ‘‘ Take Back the 
Heart thou Gavest.” 

It is too dark to read. Dr. Lamar lays down his 
paper, and essays conversation on the cheerful subjects 
of typhoid and typhus. But Frank’s replies are mono- 
syllabic ; he is listening to that gentle little plaint with 
a savage sort of soreness at his heart. Even here his in- 
fidelity faces him, in the innocent voice of the singer 
in the mournful words of the song. 

Geoffrey sees he is not in the mood for talk, and 
resigns himself to listen also. Little Leo’s singing is 
always pleasant to the fraternal ear. Certainly, Liv- 
ingston is very much changed, he thinks, he used to be 
rather a rattle-pate ; melancholy and Frank never used 
to be on speaking terms. Can it be connected with 
Olga? the young doctor wonders. He sighs as he 
wonders ; she rises before him, a vision of pure, pale 
loveliness, a daughter of the gods, divinely tall and 
mpst divinely fair — no other he sees equals her. Happy 
Frtink, if he is to win her. But is he worthy ? He is 
the sort of a fellow to fancy himself in love many 
times, but Olga Ventnor has a deep nature, a strong, 
steadfast heart ; the man she gives herself to should 
be brave, and loyal, and true. 

A good fellow enough, Frank — a fellow to make a 


HOTV JOANNA GAME BAOX;^ 


BSA 

different sort of girl happy, but never Olga Veat 
□or. 

The song ends ; silence falls ; Frank rises and ap 
proaches the piano. 

‘*A melancholy ditty,” he says, half-smiling. 

Will you have some white roses, Leo ? They used 
to be your favorite flowers — used they not? You see 
I remember old times and tastes. And as a reward of 
merit, sing for me again — something not quite so 
heart-broken this time.” 

A flush rises to Leo’s dusk, mignonne face. She 
does not thank him for his floral offering other than 
by that fleeting blush, but she buries her pretty little 
nose in their sweetness, and gives them a surreptitious 
kiss, a little for themselves, a great deal for their 
giver. 

“ I will sing whatever you like,” she says, in that 
shy, sweet way of hers. “ I sing all Claribel’s songs, 
and like them best — they are so simple, you know, and 
BO, just suited to me.” 

“ So sweet, you know, and so suited to you,” amends 
Livingston, rallying, and dropping into this sort of 
thing from sheer force of habit. 

“ Shall we have lights ? ” Leo asks. 

The half-light is charming ; his presence sets every 
little youthful nerve thrilling as he leans, tall and dark, 
against the piano. 

“ Not unless you wish it. I like this hour ‘ "twixt 
the gloaming and the mil k,’ as the Scotch say. Can 
you not sing from memory ? 

“ Oh, yes,” Leo answers, and sings. It h another 
of Claribel’s ; not sad this time, but with a gay, lilting 
refrain : 


HOW JOANNA OAHB BACK. 


S35 


“ And I will marry my ain love, 

For true of heart am I. ’’ 

True of heart !” Livingston thinks , “true of 
.tart ! ” Is it in him to be that to any one ? he won- 
lers. It is a noble quality, truth of heart ; but noble 
:^ua]ities seem to have shaken hands and parted from 
him of late. 

It is precisely five days since he first came to the 
Lamar cottage, days that have flown so pleasantly that 
their flight has been unfelt. All his life is about to be 
changed ; on the brink of that supreme change he 
may surely linger for a moment. Sybarite that he is, 
looking neither backward nor forward. But the brief 
respite is at an end ; this is the close of the last day. 

“ Sing ‘ Robin Adair,’ ” he says, in the pause that 
follows ; “ you used to sing it long ago ; and I will re 
turn to Geoff and smoke while I listen. It will be my 
parting remembrance of you — this twilit room, and 
the words of the old Scotch song.” 

“ Your parting !” she exclaims. The little brown 
hands on the keys falter and fall, in the dusk ; the 
small face whitens. “ What do you mean ?” 

“That I tear myself away from this enchanted 
spot, this ‘Island of Tranquil Delights,* to-morrow 
morning by the 9.50 train ; and ‘ Robin Adair * shall 
speed the parting guest. Ah, little Leo, it is five long 
summer days since I came, and the good days of this 
life are not long-lived. My pleasant visit is ended ; 
to-morrow I go back to grim reality, to grim duty, to 
grim New York. I will carry this picture with me, 
and paint it some day — this half -lit interior this open 
piano, and — you. Ah, little 1 iittJe Leo I believe 
me, t am sorry to go.** 


336 


now JOANNA CAME BACK. 


And then he stops suddenly, and goes off to Geof 
frey and his cigar ; and little 1 eo is left to realize the 
swift, startling truth that her heart will go with him 
to New York or wherever he chooses to take it, and 
that she will follow her heart, oh, so gladly ! so 
lovingly ! if that blissful day ever comes when he 
will ask her. But just at present she is a maiden un- 
asked, and her duty is to be ‘‘ plucky,” and sing “ Robin 
Adair,” while he smokes over there in the garden chair. 

And she does it bravely, too, to the end. If the 
sweet voice is low, it is always low ; if it falters, it is 
a pathetic little ballad ; if it closes with something 
like a sob, the last chord of the accompaniment drowns 
that. 

The summer darkness is friendly and hides much. 
But she sings no more. She comes close to her brother 
and, sitting on a low stool, nestles her head against 
his knee. He lays his hand lightly on that dark, 
drooping head. 

“Tired, little Leo?” he says, gently. “Does the 
ankle hurt ?” 

“A little,” she answers, in a stifled voice. 

Opposite, Livingston sits smoking, silent, dark, in 
deepest shadow. Overhead there is a primrose, star-lit 
sky, around them sleeping flowers and fragrant shrubs, 
summer stillness, a faint breeze, and the noise and 
lights of the great city afar off. 

As they sit there, a silent trio, Mrs. Abbott— Lamar 
she calls herself now — descends and joio them. She 
looks very frail and white, but the rare beauty and 
stately grace remain. 

“ In the dark ?” she says, smiling. “ Why do you 
Dot light the parlor, Leo, and go in ?” 


HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 


337 


** It is pleasanter here, mother,” says her son bring 
ing forward a chair. “ Have you a wrap ? Yes, I sea 
Well, sit down ; it is a lovely night — let us enjoy 
it.” 

‘ Let us crown ourselves with roses before they 
fade,’ ” quotes Livingston out of the dusk. “ My roses 
fade with this evening. To-morrow I go, and I shall 
bear with me the memory of one of the pleasantest 
visits of my life.” 

There are exclamations from Mrs. Lamar and 
Geoffrey. Leo says not a word. 

“ So soon ?” Mrs. Lamar says. “ Oh ! I am sorry.” 

She is sorry. It has seemed wonderfully good to 
see a face out of the old life — the old life that has had 
its pleasures and its friendships, as well as its bitter 
pain. 

“ Thank you for saying that,” Frank returns ; 
“ thank you still more for the tone of sincerity in 
which it is said. Mrs. Lamar, I wish you would do 
me a favor ; I wish you would let Olga Ventnor come 
and see Leo.” 

There is a movement in the quiet figure leaning 
against Geoffrey’s knee, but she does not speak. 

“ Olga !” the lady says, startled. “ Oh I indeed I 
do not know. All that is at an end ” 

“ You have chosen that it shall be,” says Frank ; 
“ there is no other reason why. And it is a little un- 
just to Leo, I think. She has no friend of her own 
age, and — pardon me — it must be a little lonely for 
her sometimes.” 

“No, nor— oh, no I” from Leo; “no, no, indeed, 
mamma. Do not think that.” 

“ And Olga is dying to see her,” pursues Living 
If 


338 


HOW JOANNA OAMB BACK. 


ston, unheeding ; and Olga is a charming girl, I 
assure you. Quite all she promised to be, and more. 
How often have I heard her long to see you all again ! 
Come, Mrs. Abbott — come, Lamar, be generous to old 
friends — say she may come.” 

“ 1 see no reason why she may not,” Geoffrey 
answers, slowly ; ** but it is a matter of feeling with 
my mother, and one for her decision alone. Would 
Miss Ventnor care to come ?” 

** Do you ask that, Lamar ? If I tell her, she most 
assuredly will not come to see you. Does your re- 
membrance of Olga lead you to think she is one of the 
* out of sight, out of mind ’ friends ? You hardly do 
her justice.” 

‘‘ You are her loyal knight, at least,” Dr. Lamar 
says, and laughs a little constrainedly, “ and plead her 
cause well. Will congratulations be premature, or are 
they an old story by this time? We are such ancient 
friends and cronies aV, you know, that it is not imper- 
tinent to ask.” 

There is a tremor in the figure leaning against his 
knee, then a strained, painful hush, in which she can 
count her own heart-beats. A brief pause follows ; 
Livingston removes his cigar to knock off the ash with 
care, and speaks ; 

“ If you mean an engagement between me and my 
cousin Olga, there is certainly no need of congratula- 
tion. We are not engaged, and we never will be. 
But we are excellent friends and cousins all the same.” 

“ But I thought — we all thought,” says Mrs. Ab- 
bott, surprised, *Uhat it was an understood thing 
you and Olga were to marry. We thought the fami 
Ueo ” 


HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 


339 


" So did I,” says Livingston, with a half laugh, 
“ and on that hint I spake. We were all mistaken, it 
^eems. Olga thought differently, ana has reserved 
lerself for a better man.” 

“ Ah ! and that better man ” 

“ Is mythical at present — has not yet put in an ap 
pearance. But no doubt he will, and Olga will wait 
serenely, although it should be a score of years hence. 
She will certainly never make a mistake matrimonially. 
What principally concerns me is, that I was not the 
man.” 

There is a pause. Frank resumes his cigar, Leo’s 
heart its wonted beating, but with a sudden contrac- 
tion of pain that she cannot define. He has asked 
then, and been refused. 

“ Refused !” thinks little Leo, looking shyly over 
at him in the dark : “ how very strange I” 

She has had many offers, no doubt ?” says Mrs. 
Abbott, at last. “Olga must be very lovely.” 

“ She has the loveliest face ever seen out of a picture 
or a dream,” Frank says, but he says it without one 
faintest touch of enthusiasm. “ Men raved about her 
abroad. She has been painted again and again — her 
beauty is almost without a flaw. But you will see her 
for yourself. Only say the word — she will be but too 
glad to come.” 

“Could we be churlish enough to refuse? Yes, 
bring her, Frank, dear, fair, little Princess Olga 1 It 
is good of her to remember us all so long.” 

“ Five years is not an eternity, Mrs. Abbott. And 
I doubt if fifty would enable those who ever knew 
forget yow.” 

Mrs. Abbott smil«\ 


340 


HOW JOANNA CAME BAOK. 


* My dear Frank, you are as charming as ever, 
You always had a faculty for saying nice things. 1 
am afraid you are a flirt — I think, indeed, I have 
heard it whispered that you always were. Leo, do 
you not hear ? Have you nothing to say ? Olga will 
come.” 

“ I am glad, mamma.” 

“ Only that, and you are generally so enthusiastic • 
You are strangely quiet to-night. Are you in pain ? 
Your ankle ” 

“ Oh, it is all right, mamma,” poor little Leo cries 
out. 

In pain — yes — but the pain is not in anything so 
unromantic as an ankle. If he is not engaged to Olga, 
what then is the matter ? Is it that her refusal has 
hurt him so deeply, in spite of his forced lightness of 
manner ? 

“ There is another friend of the past,” Dr. Lamar 
says slowly, after a silence, “whom I suppose you 
have never met in all your wanderings up and down 
the world. I mean Joanna !” 

The name falls so unexpectedly, that all start at its 
sound. Livingston in the darkness turns quite white. 

“ Why do you suppose so ?” he answers, and his 
voice is not quite steady. “ I have met Joanna !” 

There is a universal exclamation. 

Dr. Lamar starts to his feet, his mother clasps her 
hands, Leo sits erect, and looks eagerly. 

“ You have met her !” Geoffrey cries, excitedly. 
'‘You know where she is I Mother, you hear this? 
At last ■” 

“ I have met her — I know where she is,” Living- 
BU>n answers, surprised at the amount of excitement 


HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 


341 


they showed ; is there anything extraordinary in 
that?” 

“ There is this — that I have searched, and caused 
search to be made everywhere all these years in vain. 
I had almost made up my mind she was dead— so 
impossible has she been to discover. And all this 
time you have known where she was ” 

“Not all this time, if you mean these six past 
years — only within the past two months,” says Frank, 
feeling oddly cold and conscious, and wondering what 
they would say if they knew. 

“ And where is she ? In New York ?” 

“ At Newport, I think, just now. How exercised 
you are over the matter, Lamar. I always knew, of 
course ” 

“My dear fellow, you know nothing, absolutely 
nothing, of the truth. It is the moat important con- 
cern of my life to find Joanna. She is safe and well, 
and married to Blake ?” 

“ Safe and well, but not married to Blake, or any- 
body else.” 

“ What ! She ran away with him, you know ” 

“I know,” Frank says, wincing; “but she ran 
away from him, as you must recall, after.” 

“It was true, then? Odd girl — strange, wild 
Joanna ! And what became of her — what did she do ? 
No harm befell her, I trust ?” 

“None whatever, but much good. She found 
friends, honest and real friends, and she has worked 
her way to comparative fame and fortune. She U 
xjoild Joanna no longer. She is a refined and thoroughly 
well-bred young lady, with gracious manners, and all 
womanly sweetness, and goodness, and grace.” 


842 


HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 


He speaks warmly, his handsome face flushes in 
the dark. 

“Thank Heaven !” he hears Mrs. Abbott murmur, 
and Geoffrey, too, seems deeply moved. 

“I am more thankful than I can say,” he says, 
after a little. “ I always knew the elements of a noble 
character were there, crushed, warped, as they had 
been. Thank Heaven, indeed ! But tell us about her, 
Frank. You can form no idea of how deeply w^e are 
all interested in the well-being and history of Joanna.” 

So Frank tell it. Out there, in the sweet summer 
dark, he tells the story of provocation, and reprisal, 
and flight, and pain, and struggle, and hardly -won 
victory. Joanna has told it to him — simply, uncon- 
scious of its real pathos — and he repeats it tenderly, 
dwelling on all her goodness, her free generosity, her 
brave great-heartedness, her bounty to all weak, 
oppressed, and suffering things. 

“ She gives like a princess, freely, with both hands, 
to all who need,” he says. “I know that the dearest 
desire of her heart is to see you all again. She speaks 
very little of herself, but that much I know.” 

“ Will you bring her to us ?” Mrs. Abbott says, 
with repressed eagerness, great tears in her eyes. 
“Oh, my poor Joanna ! my poor, wronged, ill-treated 
child ! Bring her to us, Frank, at once, at once I 
Geoffrey, you cannot go for her, I know — if you 
could ” 

“ Quite impossible, mother, quite unnecessary also. 
Livingston will tell her and she will come. I will write 
to-night and say — well, something of what there is to 
be said — and she will come. The rest she can learn 
here. Frank, you have done us to-night a service fci 


HOW JOANNA DAME BACK. 


343 


which I thank you with all my heart. You do not 
understand now, but you will later. Get in lightSj Leo 
I will write my letter at once, before I am called 
tway.^’ 

So they leave the sweet-smelling garden, and the 
starry sky, and go in. Lights are brought. Geoffrey 
sits down to write, Mrs. Abbott goes to the piano and 
plays dreamy sonatas, Leo gets some needlework, 
Frank sits near, with the paper Geoffrey has thrown 
down, and says little. Presently it is eleven, and the 
letter is finished — a very long one, and it is bedtime, 
and they all stand up to say good-night and good-by. 

“ But you will soon return with Olga ?” Mrs. Ab- 
bott says. 

“ Olga will soon be here,” he answers, with a smile, 
but Leo notices he says nothing about accompanying 
her. Then it is her turn, and those two hard words, 
** good-by,” are spoken, and his visit has come to an 
end. 

4c « « ♦ ♦ * 

A gentleman for you, Miss Jenny.” Her maid 
hands her a card. Joanna looks at it, and her face 
flushes. Frank returned. 

She is alone in her room. A week has passed since 
Jud Sleaford told her his story, and no action has been 
taken yet. She hardly knows why she waits, but it is 
for Livingston’s return, and now the week is up, and he 
is here. She goes swiftly to where he waits, and he 
comes forward, both hands outstretched. 

“You did not expect me so soon ?” he says, the 
first salutation over. “ No, I know. But the oddest 
thing has happened Whom do you think I have 
met?” 


344 


HOW JOANNA OAMB BAOX. 


She has no idea, she says, and smiles at the bright 
eagerness of his face. 

“ Leo Abbott — Geoff — their mother —and I have 
been stopping with them ever since.” 

“Frank !” 

“ I thought you would be astounded. You cannot 
be more delighted than they were, when they found 
out I knew you, and where you were. They have 
been looking for you, it appears, all this time. You 
know they have given up everything — the Abbott 
property, I mean — and Geoffrey supports them by his 
profession. They are living in comparative poverty 
and obscurity, but are one and all as delightful people 
as ever. Here is an epistle for you, from Geoff, long 
enough to make one jealous, and, Joanna, they count 
upon your going to them at once.” 

She takes the large letter, and looks at the clear, 
bold, familiar writing. 

“ I thank God,” she says, softly, “ I have got the 
desire of my heart. And I thank you, Frank, for 
being the bearer of good news. And you have been 
there ever since ?” 

“ My mother had gone,” he says, hastily. “ She 
had left for Saratoga before I left New York. I 
mean to go after her there at once. It reminds one of 
* Japhet in Search of a Father,’ and seems almost as 
fruitless a search,” he laughs. 

“ Do not,” she interposes, and lays her hand on hit 
arm, “ as a favor to me — at least not yet. Wait. 
Tell me about them. Is Leo pretty ? ” 

“ Very pretty.” 

She glances at him a moment. 

“ And Mrs. Abbott ? ” she says, then. 


HOW JOANNA CAME BACK. 


34d 


“ As beautiful as ever, but less proud, less cold. 
You know what I mean. As for Geoff — dear old fel- 
low, he is looking splendidly. Shall you go at once, 
Joanna? They will literally be in a fever, I think, 
until you are with them.” 

“ I will go to-morrow.” 

** And I may accompany you, of course ? Then I 
must inform Olga, who wishes to visit them too. They 
will owe me a vote of thanks, I fancy, for restoring 
them to their friends.” 

“ Go for your cousin at once, for I intend to go 
alone. Yes ; I will have it so. I prefer it. Do you 
think I cannot travel alone ? ” laughing, and lifting 
her brave, bright face. “ Have you yet to learn I am 
strong-minded, and amply sufficient unto myself ? 
And, Frank, do not tell your cousin any more than 
your mother. Tell no one until I give you leave.” 

“But, Joanna ” he is beginning, impetuously, 

when Professor Ericson enters, and cuts him short. 
Joanna informs him of to-morrow’s journey, and that 
Mr. Livingston will dine with him, and so his oppor- 
tunity is gone. 

He dines and spends the evening, but he does not 
see Joanna for a moment alone. And next day she 
departs, holding to her resolution to go unescorted. 
He sees her off, and takes the train for Brightbrook 
and his cousin Olga. Will they meet, he wonders, 
these two, at the Lamar cottage, and if so, how? 
Will Olga be simply, chillingly civil? And how is it 
thapt Lamar and his mother take the finding of Joanna 
80 greatly to heart ? 

In the late afternoon of that day a cab sets Joanna 
down in front of the I/amar cottage. They have not 
15 * 


846 


HOW JOANNA PAID HEB DEBT. 


expected her so soon, and Mrs. Abbott alone is in tb€ 
house. As she sits the door opens, a tall young lady 
enters hurriedly, and falls on her knees beside her, and 
clasps her in her arms. 

“ Mrs. Abbott,” the familiar voice cries, “ it is I. 
Oh I my friend, kindest, truest, dearest, best, look at 
me — bid me welcome — say you forgive me — say you 
•re glad to see me. It is I — Joanna — come back.” 


CHAPTER IX. 



HOW JOANNA PAID HEB DEBT. 

HEY sit in the half-lit parlor, the lights 
turned low under shades, and Joanna 
listens once more to the story Jud Sleaford 
has told. Her hand is clasped in Mrs. 
Abbott’s, Leo nestles beside her after her usual cling- 
ing, childish fashion, and Geoffrey is the narrator 
No sound disturbs him, there are tears in his mother’s 
dark eyes, otherwise she is calm. In the startled eyes 
of little Leo there are wonder and fear, but she says 
nothing, although what she hears now she hears for the 
6rst time. For Joanna, she sits quite still, quite calm^ 
and listens to the end. Even then there is not much 
said — there is not much that it is easy to say. Leo 
buries her face in Joanna’s lap, and is sobbing softly. 

“ Oh, how could papa — how could he — how could 
he?” 

It is not in that tender little heart to b’ame any 
one too hardly. She is afraid to look at he: mother 
mt Joanna, her sister, both so deeply wronged. Hei 


HO^ JO ANITA PAID HER DEBT. 


347 


•ister, how strange that thought. A thrill of gladness 
goes through her as she clasps her closer in her arms. 
She has grown so famous, she bears herself so nobly — 
it almost compensates. And she will be a great heiress 
-'Joanna — it is her birthright, all that splendor and 
luxury — beautiful, lost Abbott Wood. 

Ah, her heart aches for Abbott Wood often and 
often, her fair, stately home, down by the sea. All is 
Joanna’s now. Kot one spark of envy or jealous 
grudging is in her — all good fortune that can befall 
her Joanna deserves, has bravely earned. They were 
the usurpers, and held from her for years what should 
have been hers. Her own sister ! How good, how 
comforting is that thought. She has never felt the 
need of a sister, mamma and Geoifrey have always 
sufficed, but it is a rare and sweet delight to find one 
at this late day. And this is why everything had to 
be given up, why mamma took her former name, why 
papa shot himself. 

“ Poor papa I he used to be so fond of his little 
Leo.” 

She sobs on, her face hidden, the sobs stifled in 
Joanna’s lap. No one has a tear for the dead sinner 
but tender-hearted little Leo. 

All this time they have been talking, brokenly, dis- 
connectedly, but Leo has not been listening. She has 
only been hearkening to her own' thoughts. Now 
Joanna gently lifts the bowed dark head. 

“ Crying, little Leo ? Why, I wonder ? Surely 
not because poor Joanna is your sister ? Ah, my dar- 
ling, it is the one bright, bright spot in all this dark 
ness, and sorrow, and sin.” 

“ Oh, my dear ! my dear 1” Leo says, flinging hei 


348 


HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 


arms about her, ‘‘ do you not know I feel that ? 1 
thank the good God for giving me so great a gift. I 
love you, Joanna — no sister was ever more dear, but 
I cannot help thinking of — of him. He was fond of 
me, you know.” 

She droops her face again, crying with all her heart. 

“Fond of you, my little one?” Joanna says, her 
own eyes moist. “ I wonder who would not be fond 
of you? And we all love you the better for those 
tears. But you” — Joanna lays her hand on Mrs. 
Abbott’s, and looks up with wondering eyes into her 
calm face — “ how you bear it. I wonder as I look at 
you. And you used to be so ” 

“ So proud, so imperious, so exacting, so haughty. 
Ah, say it, Joanna ! Do I not know it well ? I needed 
the lesson I have received — the only blow, I believe, 
that could have humbled me. All other things — sick- 
ness, poverty, death itself — I could have borne and 
kept my pride ; this I could not. Pride had to fall. 
I bore it badly enough at first — in agony, in rebellion, 
in despair. I would not believe such shame, such dis- 
grace, could touch me. I lay for weeks at death’s door. 
I was wicked enough to wish to die. But all that is a 
memory of the past now ; I am happy^ -yes, quite 
happy, Joanna, with a deeper, and a truer, and more 
lasting happiness. Do you remember the ninth Beati- 
tude of St. Francis de Sales — ‘Blessed are the hearti 
that bend, for they shall never break.’ I have no fear 
of a broken heart, now.” 

J oanna stoops and touches, with loving lips, the 
worn, white, thin hand. 

“ And now,” Geoffrey says, briskly, coming back 
to the practical, “ there is nothing for you to do but 


HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBl. 


349 


to step into the property, and take the reins of gov- 
ernment out of the hands of Blaksley & Bird. They 
have managed the estate very well in all thes« years, 
and your income must have accumulated like a roiling 
golden river. What a rich young person you are, Jo- 
anna — quite a modern Mademoiselle Fifty Millions I 
And yet how quietly you sit there and take it all.” 

Dr. Lamar says this in rather an injured tone. Jo- 
anna laughs. 

“ What would you have ?” she says; “ that I should 
throw up my hat and hurrah ? We don’t do that when 
we come into a fortune — the luck is something too solid 
and substantial. Besides, it comes to me so — well, not 
pleasantly. It is not a comfortable reflection, that the 
best, the dearest friends ever forlorn waif found in 
her need, are thrust out to make room for — I had al- 
most said, the viper they had nourished. It takes all 
heart out of your millions, Geoffrey.” 

“ Oh ! if you look at it in that light,” says Geoffrey, 
coolly; ‘‘being a woman, of course you will take the 
romantic and unpractical side of it first. But having 
taken it, look at the other — at the birthright usurped 
for years. And as our going out was inevitable, you 
must know what a delight it will be to us all to see 
you step in and reign at Abbott Wood instead of a 
stranger. You have grown such a regal-looking young 
woman, Joanna, that you will grace the position and 
the house. I know of no one,” says Dr. Lamar, making 
a courtly bow, which includes the two ladies, “ so fit- 
ted, in mind and person, to succeed its late illustrious 
chatelaine !” 

They laugh, and all restraint and embarrassment 
Ay. Time has so softened the ^ast, so blunte i the 


860 


HOW JOAISTNi PAID HEE DEBT. 


pain, that they can bear to talk of it all with hardly 
a pang. 

“We have kept it a secret hitherto, even from 
Leo,” says Geoffrey, “ because, until you were found, 
nothing could be gained by telling. Now, everything 
had better be told, and the sooner you are installed at 
Abbott Wood the better. What are your plans, 
Joanna? Whatever they are, for the futdke remem- 
ber you are to command me. I consider myself quite 
as much your brother as Leo is your sister.” 

She stretches out her hand. 

“More than brother always, Geoffrey — best and 
stanchest of friends. And so I may command you in 
all things ? You promise this ?” 

“Undoubtedly — in all things.” 

“Very well — the first command I issue is, that you 
will not say one word of this to any one. To the law- 
yers, if you like, but make them the only exceptions. 
Not one word, remember, to any living soul.” 

“ But, my dear Joanna ” 

“ But, my dear Geoffrey, you have pledged your- 
self blindly to obey, and must abide that rash promise. 
I will it so.” 

“And Joanna is queen regnant now, it must be ^ as 
the queen wills !’ ” cries Leo, gayly. 

“ Well — if I must, I must, but I see no sense in it. 
And your plans? for that is not one. But perhaps it 
is too early for you to have formed any.” 

“ No — my plans, such as they are, are formed, and 
are few, and simple enough. In the first place, I leave 
the stage.” 

“ Of course 1” promptly—" that goes without say 
iag.” 


HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 


351 


" In the second,” smiling, “ I stay here a week oi 
two, with you all, if you will have me.” 

“ If we will have her — oh !” says Leo, opening 
wide her velvety eyes. 

“ Then I start for San Francisco, escorted by my 
dear old professor, who would escort me to the world’s 
end, at an hour’s notice, and take my mother, my poor 
mother, out of her prison of years.” 

“ Good child,” says Mrs. Abbott. “You will find 
her well, too. Geoffrey had a letter from the doctor, 
only a fortnight ago, saying so, and saying she still 
keeps calling for you. Ah ! Joanna, that fatal for- 
tune will do some good after all — it will rescue her.” 

“In Joanna’s hands it will do much good,” says 
Geoffrey, with decision. “ Well, and after that ?” 

“ After that — after that the deluge ! I hardly 
know. Thus far I have planned, and no farther. I 
do not quite realize it all yet. My plans and wants 
will increase, I suppose, as I do. But oh ! through it 
all, this fairy fortune — this strange, tragical story, 
there is one thing I do realize to my heart’s core — how 
glad I am to be with you all again. What would it all 
avail but for your goodness in the past. Geoffrey, my 
first friend, I cannot thank you — indeed, I will not 
try — but you know, you know what I feel ! And Leo 
is my sister — my very, very own sister. It is better 
than a score of fortunes. And you !” she puts her 
arms suddenly about Mrs. Abbott, “ my dearest 1 my 
dearest, my more than mother, how good you were to 
me, in those long gone days. Your lessons of love, of 
patience, of gentleness, seemed to be thrown away 
then, but I hope — oh I I hope, they have come back^ 
and borne fruit. Nothing good is ever lost, it all re- 


m 


HOW JOANHA PAID HER DEBT. 


turns sooner or later. I have found my own motheit, 
but I can never love her better than I love you.” 

It is a scene, and these women weep together, and 
when, an hour .ater, good-nights are said, it is a very 
happy little household that retires to sleep. 

But Joanna does not sleep — at least for hours. She 
is excited, she wants to be alone, to think. She has 
the room lately vacated by Livingston. Some relics 
of him yet remain — a glove on the table, a flower 
given him by Leo, dead and dry on the window-sill. It 
is of him she is thinking — he is rarely absent long 
from her thoughts. He is coming to-morrow with his 
cousin Olga. He must not know, not yet, not yet. In 
these dim plans of hers for the future, his figure does 
not appear ; she tries to place him there, but she can- 
not. A week with Leo, and already the abrupt men- 
tion of his name sends a flush into the dark, migiionne 
face. Is it so, then ? And he ? She is the sweetest 
little blossom possible, a tender, gentle, adoring little 
heart, the sort to sit at her husband’s feet, and worship, 
and see no faults. No, in the picture of her future, 
Joanna cannot fancy him, try as she may. 

Next day he comes, and with him Olga Ventnor. 

Or. Lamar is very busy in those days, and disease 
and death are very busy, too, in the city. 

He and they do battle by day and by night; he has 
very little time to give them at Itome. Fever is spread- 
ing and will not be stamped out ; the 'v^ eather is hot, 
damp, murky, oppressive — real fever weather, and in 
the pestilential purlieus many lie ill unto death these 
July days. He is indefatigable in his profession, he 
•eems to live in his carriage, he begins to look fagged 
and wovn, strong and robust as he is, splendid in his 


HOW JOXNNA PAID HB2 DZBT. ftPB 

flawless vitality. His mother grows anxious, and begs 
kirn to spare himself, but in vain. 

Coming home on this sultry evening, tired, de- 
pressed, hungry, out of sorts, his mind filled with grim 
sick-rooms, and the grim faces of poverty and disease, 
he sees a vision ! Standing in the parlor, alone, the 
last light full upon her, dressed in some gauzy, silky 
robe, that floats like a cloud softly over the carpet, 
her golden braids twisted coronet-fashion around her 
head, a diamond star flashing at her throat, he seee — 
Olga. 

It comes upon him like a shook, a shock of rapture. 
He has not been thinking of her at all, and she is be- 
fore him, a dream of light, of loveliness. He stands 
quite still, quite pale, unable for a moment to advance 
or speak, looking at her. It is she who comes for- 
ward, blushing slightly, smiling and holding out bar 
hand. 

“ Are you going to swoon at my feet. Dr. Lamar ? 
Do not, I beg — I would not know in the least how to 
bring you to. Yes, it is I in the flesh — Olga — shake 
hands and see. How unflatteringly amazed you look, 
to be sure ! And yet,” with the prettiest of pouts, 
“you must have known I wa«i coming.” 

“ I had forgotten,” says Lr. Lamar. 

The words are not flattering, but he still holds b«r 
hand, and gazes at hir as though he could never giue 
enough. 

“ Complimentary, upon my word I But it is just 
like you all — out of sight, out of mind. Leo and your 
mother had not forgotten, sir ! Men have no memories. 
Will you not come in ? The house is thine owr —or do 
you mean to stand staring indeflnitcly. Too remind 


HOW rOAlJNA PAID HEE DEBT. 


me of the cointry swain, who sighed and ooked, 
sighed and looked, sighed and looked, and .ooked 
again. If you sigh and look into the dining-room it 
will be more to the purpose. Your dinner is waiting 
there, and your mother has been left lamenting over 
yunr prolonged absence, and the fowl that is spoiling 
while it waits.” 

She runs on gayly — she sees all the surprise, the 
admiration in his face, and she likes it. She is a hero- 
worshiper, this fair, white Olga, and Geoffrey Lamar 
is her latest hero. She does not understand very 
clearly, but for honor’s sake he has given up a fortune, 
and gone out single-handed to fight with fate. He is 
a hero in that to this romantic young lady; he is work- 
ing himself to death among the poor and suffering, 
heedless of rest, or food, or comfort, he is a hero in 
that also. And it is a grand thing to be like that. 
She adores strength, bravery, unselfish deeds. And — 
what a distinguished-looking man he has become, but 
then he always had that air noble even as a boy, which 
she admires so much, and sees so seldom. 

Dr. Lamar is off duty that evening, really off duty, 
and enjoys his home circle with a zest, a delight that 
is not untinged with pain. To sit and look at that 
lovely face is a pleasure so intense that he is almost 
afVaid of it. Frank is there, near Leo ; Mrs. Ventnor, 
too, is present, talking earnestly to Mrs. Abbott. 

They have much to say and hear, of the past five 
years, and once mutna. friends. She and her daughter, 
with Frank, are stopping at the hotel near by — the 
bandbox cottage accommodates but one guest at a time. 
That one, Joanna, is at the piano, playing softly — eo 
aoltly that she disturbs the talk of no one. Livingst^ 


HOW JOANFA PAID HEB DEBT. SflQ 


tries to be devoted, and turns the music, but she sends 
him away. 

‘‘ I play from memory,” she says, ‘‘ or I improvise. 
It is my way of thinking aloud ; and I like to be alone 
when I think. Go and talk — go and amuse little Leo,” 
smilingly ; “ she hates to be alone.” 

8o he goes, and thus paired off, the evening passes 
delightfully. It is an evening Geoffrey, for one, never 
forgets. Olga is by his side ; Joanna is playing softly, 
softly, and a little sadly. Is she happy ? Her face 
tells nothing. The others are — he is, supremely so. 
Outside there is the summer darkness, the stars, the 
whispering wind. Yes, it is a picture he will recall to 
his dying day. 

Miss Ventnor has met Miss Wild, the vocalist, with 
some surprise, and extreme curiosity. And so she is 
J oanna ? — really ? How stupid of her and Frank not 
to have recognized her at once. But she has so 
changed — so improved. Miss Wild will pardon her, 
she trusts, for saying as much. After all, she is privi- 
leged, being such a very old — acquaintance. May she 
congratulate her ? — her voice is enchanting, she envies 
her whenever she hears it. How charming that they 
should all meet again like this. And so on— more than 
civil — gracious, indeed — quite the manner of some fair, 
young grand duchess, uplifted that she can afford to 
stoop and be sweet. 

Joanna smiles at it all, not embarassed, not over- 
whelmed, and responds very quietly. Olga does not 
dream — none of them do — the double secret she holds, 
her manner to Livingston is so simply that of a friend. 
Still, he feels uncomfortable, and urges her to let him 
UU. " Wait, wmt,” is all she will say. It if hor 


BOW JOABWA PAID HEB DEBT. 


answer t3 Geoffrey, too, when he reiterates Lis wish H 
make known her real position to the Ventnors. “ Oh, 
wiit,” she says ; “ time enough for all that.” And 
tney obey her. She has a strong will, this gentle 
Joanna, and it makes itself felt. She knows her own 
mind, and adheres to it. She forms her own plans, 
and abides by them. She has great faith in time, and 
waiting, and patience, to set the most ciooked things 
straight. A little, indeed, is revealed — she has dis- 
covered her mother, out in San Francisco, and Joanna 
is going there to join ber next week. It is her inten- 
tion to return with her and make another brief visit to 
the Lamars. 

After that — Livingston glances at her with a some- 
what anxious face, but she smiles back at him with a 
brightness all her own. She has the brightest smile, 
the frankest laugh, in the world — in her presence ther^ 
is a sense of comfort, of peace, of rest. That subtiU 
fascination of manner has its effect on them all, and 
her singing charms care from every heart. Mrs 
Ventnor is bewitched — Olga says so laughingly ; she is 
ready to listen for hours, rapt, if Joanna will onlj 
sing. 

“I repeat it,” Miss Ventnor says, “you have be 
witched mamma, Miss Wild. She is under the spell o> 
a musical enchantress. What sorcery is in that voic* 
of yours that you steal our hearts through our ears ? ” 

This is very gracious. Olga goes with the majority 
and does real homr^ge to her old foe. The clear, nobU 
face, the quiet, well-bred manner, the siren charm ev 
Toice, win golden opinions from her, fastidious % 
■he is. 

^InsTer saw anyone so changed as that — 


HOIf JOAIfKA tAXD HEB DXBT. 307 

Jdftnnft,” she says, half laughingly, half petulantly, to 
Frank ; “ she is a witch, I think. Even T cannot re- 
sist. There is a sort of charm about her — I cannot de- 
fine it, but perhaps you can see — that compels one’s 
liking in spite of one’s self.” 

“ And why in spite of one’s self. Mile. Olga ? Why 
should one try to resist ? ” 

“ Ah I why ? We were always antagonistic, you 
know. And so you can see it ? Now, really you are 
sharper-sighted than I took you to be. I thought y yu 
saw nothing but little Leo’s riante face ! ” 

“What?” Livingston cries, conscience-stricken ; 
“do you know what you are saying ? Leo I Wh t is 
Leo to me ? ” 

“I do not know what Leo may be to you at this 
present moment,” says Olga, coolly, “ but if things go 
on, she will be Mrs. Livingston to you before long. 
Dejal we go fast, my friend. Your heart goes out 
through your eyes, it seems. And only two months 
ago he proposed to me ! What a crushing blow to my 

vanity ! As for little Leo ” 

But the door opens, and little Leo comes in with 
Joanna, and the cousins part — Livingston covered with 
confusion as with a garment, and Olga’s sapphire eyes 
laughing with malice. 

The days go by ; Joanna’s week has nearly merged 
into two. They hold her by force, it seems ; Mrs. 
Abbott’s pleading eyes, Leo’s pleading lips, Geoffrey’s 
pleasure in her prolonged stay. The Ventnors are 
still here ; Livingston is every day, and all day every 
day, almost, at the cottage. 

Dr. Lamar works as hard as ever, spares himself as 
Uttle as ever, and begins to really look haggard and 


953 


HOW JOANNA PAID HER DEBT. 


ill. His mother and Joanna watch him with anziciTif 
eyes, and what they fear comes to pass. Olga’s hero 
goes down on his battle-field, but facing and fighting 
the foe until he falls, prostrate and conquered. 

And then there are tears, and panic, and terror in 
the bright little household, and a sudden scattering of 
the happy circle. And in this hour, Joanna comes 
forward to pay her debt, to pay it, if need be, even 
with her life. She is calm and self-possessed, where 
all is dismay. She takes Livingston aside, and speaks 
to him as one having authority. 

‘‘Last night I spoke to Geoffrey,” she quietly says: 
“he felt this coming on, and knew he could rely 
upon me. He wished to be taken to the hospital, but 
that I would not hear of. He wished me to go, but 
that was still more impossible. Then we decided what 
to do, and you must obey. You must leave at once, 
and take Miss Ventnor, and her mother, and Leo with 
you, to Brightbrook, if you are wise; this city is not 
safe. I remain with Mrs. Abbott. A professional 
nurse is coming, and his friend. Dr. Morgan, will 
attend. To obey is the only way in which you can 
help us, and with the help of Heaven, Geoffrey will 
be restored to us soon.” 

“ But, oh, Joanna,” the young man cries out, “ it 
may be death to you I” 

She smiles; it is a smile that goes to his heart. 

“If Heaven pleases, but I think not. I am so 
strong, so well, I have never been ill in my life, and 
I am not in the least afraid. T do not think that for 
me there is the slightest danger. But for your cousin 
and Leo, there may be much. Take them awf y, Yranl^ 
and do not come here any more.” 


HOW JOANNA PAIB HEK DEBT. 809 

“ I will take them away,” he answers, “ bet ai f<r 
not coming here any more——” 

He does not finish the sentence; he turns to go. 
Then suddenly he comes back, and clasps her closely 
in his arms, and kisses her again and again. 

“ God bless you, my own darling — my brave, not le, 
great-hearted Joanna, and make me worthy of you in 
the time that is to come.” 


Olga Ventnor, and her mother, and Leo are taken 
away. Not willingly, rebelling, and under loud pro- 
tests and tears on Leo’s part, white, mute grief on 
Olga’s. Her heart burns as she thinks of Joanna there 
in the post of danger, by his side, and she here, 
selfishly safe and free. 

But she says little. What is there for her to 
say ? and maiden pride is very strong in Olga Ventnor. 
They see that she is pale, that as the days go on she 
grows thin as a shadow, that she wanders about like 
a restless spirit, that she listens breathlessly to the 
report Livingston brings daily, and many times a day. 
For they have not gone, that would have been too 
cruel, and Frank hovers constantly about the cottage, 
intercepts the doctor, waylays the nurse, and tries to 
catch glimpses of Joanna. There are not many glimpses 
of Joanna to be had; she literally lives in the sick- 
room, she shares the nightly vigils, she snatches brief 
naps in her clothes, while she insists upon his mcthei 
taking her proper rest. No Sister of Mercy, no 
adoring wife, could have watched, nursed, cared for 
him more devotedly than does she. And the days 
pass — the long, sunny, summer days. Eve/ytLing 


800 


HOW JOANNA PAID HEB DXBT< 


that medical skill can do, that tireless n arsing can do 
are done. And they triumph. There comes a day 
and a night of agonized suspense, and waiting, and 
heart-break — a night in which Olga Ventnor knows ic 
her agony that if Geoffrey Lamar dies, all that life 
holds of joy for her will die too — a night in which 
Leo weeps, and Livingston roams restlessly, and 
Joanna watches, and waits, and prays. And as day 
dawns, and the first lances of sunshine pierce the 
darkened sick-room, she comes out, white as a spirit, 
wasted, wan, but oh ! so thankful — Oh ! so glad — Oh! 
so unspeakably blessed. Frank Livingston starts up 
and comes forward, pale too, and worn, and thin. 
He does not speak — his eyes speak for him. 

“ Do not come near,” Joanna says, remembering, 
even in that supreme hour, prudence. “Go home 
and tell them all to bless God for us. Geoffrey will 
live.” 

He goes and tells his glad news. Mrs. Ventnoi 
and Leo cry with joy, and are full of outspoken 
thanksgiving, but Olga is silent. And presently she 
rises, feeling giddy and faint, and goes to her room, 
and falls on her knees by the bed, and there remains, 
bowed, speechless, motionless, a long, long time. And 
whether it is for Geoffrey she is praying, or — Joanna 
^«8h0 can never telL 


CHAPTER X. 
“the time of BOSES.” 


NEVER thought to see it again, tha 
dear old place. Nowhere in the world 
can ever seem so much like home to ma 
as Brightbrook. It is good, good, good 

to be back !” 

So says little Leo, drawing a long, contented 
breath. She stands leaning against a brown tree 
trunk, her hat in her hand, the sunshine sifting down 
upon her like a rain of gold, flecking her pink cambrio 
dress, her braided dark hair, her sweet, soft-out face, 
the great black velvety eyes. 

Those dark eyes gaze with a wistful light in the 
direction of Abbott Wood, whither she has not yet 
been. Sitting in a rustic chair, near, Frank Living- 
ston looks at her, thinking, artist-like, what an uncon- 
scious picture she makes of herself, and with some- 
thing deeper, perhaps, than mere artist admiration in 
his eyes. 

They are all here, the Lamar family, and have 
been for two days. To Leo it is as though they had 
never quitted it. The villa, the village, the faces of 
Frank and Olga, everything seems as if she had only- 
left yesterday. The gap of years is bridged over ; 
she is rich and prosperous Leo Abbott once more. 
Only her old home she has not seen ; she longs to go, 
but dreads to ask. 

In an invalid chair, close by, sits her brother, very 
mnoh of an invalid still, pallid and thin to a moat ia* 
If 



« the time of BOSES. 


>> 

teresting degree, and petted by all the womankind 
until Livingston declares in disgust the after coddling 
must be ten times harder for Lamar to bear up against 
than the fever bout. Olga is an exception. Olga, 
now that she has gotten him safely here, feels a limit- 
less content, but she does not ‘‘ coddle.” She watches 
the returning appetite, the growing strength, t^e 
gradual return to life and health, with a gladness, a 
thankfulness words are weak to tell, but she pets not 
at all. She treats him a trifle more tenderly, perhaps, 
than the Geoffrey Lamar, vigorous of strength and 
life, of some weeks back ; but feel as she may, Olga 
Ventnor is not one to wear her heart on her sleeve for 
any man, sick or well. She is a fair, a gracious, a 
lovely young hostess, full of all gentle care for the 
comfort of her guests ; but Geoffrey is her mother’s 
especial province, and to her mother she quietly leaves 
him. 

It is rather against his will, truth to tell, that Dr. 
Lamar is here at all ; but very little voice was given 
him in the matter — his faint objections were over- 
ruled by a vast majority, and he was en route hither 
almost before he knew it. 

Colonel Ventnor had come for his wife and daugh- 
ter, alarmed for their safety, and, finding the patient 
convalescent, had waited a few days, and abducted 
him, willy nilly. The cottage had been shut up, and 
the family are safely here, recuperating in the fresh, 
sea-scented breezes of Brightbrook, and Olga and Leo 
at least, in their hidden hearts, supremely happy. 

For Frank and Geoffrey — well, their roses are cer- 
tainly not thornless. For Geoffrey, he finds himself 
jrlelding irresistibly to the spell of other days, and it 


** THE TIME OF ROSES. 368 

threatens to be a fatal spell. In those other days it 
was different — he might have hoped then — now hope 
would only be another name for presumption. He has 
loved Olga ever since he can remember, it seems to 
him, and even when he thought her assigned to Liv 
ingston, had hoped, feeling confident of being able to 
hold his own with that careless wooer. But all that 
has been changed ; in those days he was the heir pre- 
sumptive of a very rich man ; in these days he is a 
penniless doctor, able to earn his daily bread, and little 
more. And for all the best years of nis life it seems 
likely to be so. For himself, he has quite made up his 
mind to it, has not been unhappy, but now — now, after 
this inopportune visit, after long days spent in her so- 
ciety, it will be different. He can hardly love her bet- 
ter, and yet he dreads to stay. He will spoil his life 
for nothing ; a hopeless passion will mar all that is 
best in him, a love she must never know of will con- 
sume his life, eat out his heart with useless longings 
and regrets. 

Meantime Joanna speeds on by day and by night, 
on her long journey to her mother. Her prediction 
has proven true — she does not take the fever. And 
the doctor tells them all that to her indefatigable 
nursing more than anything else do they owe Geof 
frey’s life. 

“ Thank her if you can, young man,” Dr. Morgan 
gays ; “ she never spared herself by night or day. But 
for her you would be a dead man this morning.” 

But Geoffrey does not even try to thank her — there 
are things for which mere words, be they never so elo- 
quent, are a poor return. Others overwhelm her with 
tears and gratitude — his mother, his sister, Mrs. Vent- 


364 


THE TIME OF EOSES. 


a 




nor. Olga says little, but it is at her Joanna looks. 
She is very pale in these first days, with a tense sort of 
look in her blue eyes; but she holds herself well in 
hand, and even Joanna turns away disappointed, from 
that still, proudly calm face. Only when they say 
good-by does a glimpse of Olga’s heart appear. She 
is the last to say it, and they are alone. She has held 
out her hand at first with a smile, and the conventional 
good wishes for a pleasant journey. Suddenly she 
fiings her arms around Joanna’s neck and holds her al- 
most wildly to her. 

“You have saved his life,” she whispers, kissing 
her again and again. “ I will love you while I live 
for that.” 

And then she is gone. 

Joanna looks after her, a glad, relieved, triumphant 
smile on her face. 

“ It is so, then,” she says, softly, “ in spite of all — 
in spite of pride. I am so glad — so very, very glad.” 

And now they are all here, and the five last miser- 
able years seem to drift away, and the old time — “ the 
time of roses” — comes back. Leo visits Abbott Wood 
to her heart’s content — no one objects — and wanders 
sadly under the trees, and down by the blue summer 
sea, through the glowing rooms, speaking of her moth- 
er’s refined taste, her father’s boundless wealth. 

Poor papa ! Leo’s tender little heart is sad for 
him yet. Here is the chapel, beautiful St. Walburga’s, 
with its radiant saints on golden backgrounds, the 
crimson and purple and golden glass casting rays of 
rainbow light on the colored marbles of the floor, the 
oarven pulpit with its angel faces, from which Mi. 
Lamb’s meek countenance used to beam down on them 


*«ms TIME OF BOSES.” 96d 

•U. up yonder is the organ where mamma used to sit 
•nd play Mozart and Haydn on Sunday afternoons. 
How silent, how sad, how changed, it all is now. Here 
is her own white and blue chamber, with its lovely 
picture of Christ blessing little children, its guardian 
angels on brackets, her books, and toilet things, all 
as they used to be. 

Here is Geoffrey’s room, bare enough and without 
carpet, for his tastes were preternaturally austere in 
those days, with lots of space, and little else, except 
an iron bedstead, and tables, and chairs. And books, 
of course — everywhere books. And a horrid skeleton 
in a closet, on wires, and a dismal skull grinning at her 
under glass. 

Leo gets out again as quickly as may be, with a 
shudder at Geoff’s dreadful tastes. Her first visit 
leaves her very sad and thoughtful ; she loves every 
tree in the old place, every room in the stately house, 
and it is never to be home to her any more I It is 
Joanna’s, and, of course, she is glad of that. No good 
too good can come to Joanna ; but for all that, it 
makes her heart ache. She may come to it as a visitor, 
but dear, dear Abbott Wood will never be home any 
more. 

No one else goes, not her mother, not her brother ; 
they drive in every other direction, never in that, 
Leo goes often, and frequent going blunts the first 
sharp feeling of loss and pain. Another sense of loss 
and pain, keener yet, follows this. What has she done 
to Frank ? He is her friend no more ; he avoids her, 
indeed ; he is never her escort if he can help it. Some- 
times he cannot help it. Olga, in her imperious 
laabion, orders him to go and take care of Leo, and 


S66 


‘‘ THE TIME OF BOSES. ’ 


n#t let the child come to harm moving abcut aione. 
Leo tries to assert herself, and summon pride to hei 
aid ; but Leo in the role of a haughty maiden is a 
failure. The sensitive lips quiver, like the lips of a 
grieved child ; the velvet black eyes grow dewy and 
deep, with tears hardly held back. What has she done 
to make Frank dislike her? He used not be like this ; 
he used to be nice, and attentive, and polite. But it 
is so no more. He goes with her when he must, and 
talks to her after a constrained fashion, and looks at 
her furtively, and seems guilty, when caught in the 
act. Why should he look guilty, and glance hastily 
away ? There is no harm in looking at her — Leo has 
a secret consciousness that she is not bad to look at 
She cannot be entirely miserable over the loss of het 
old home, while she every day grows more and more 
miserable over the loss of her friend. 

And the days go on, and the weeks pass, and the 
end of September is here. They have heard from 
Joanna. Mrs. Abbott has had a brief letter, very 
brief. She has reached her journey’s end in safety ; 
she has found her mother, has taken her from the asy- 
lum, and, after a week or two of rest, will return. 
She sends her love to all. There is no more. It if 
singularly short, and business-like, and to the point. 
She writes to no one else. Livingston hardly knows 
whether he is sorry or relieved. He has asked her to 
write, but she has made no promise. In a fortnight 

she will be back, and then They will bear the 

announcement of his engagement better now than they 
would have done a month ago. After all, it is as well 
he waited. All sing pasans in Joanna’s praise now. 
He grows a trifle weary, sometimes, listening. It is all 


THE HME OE rnOSHS.*^ 


367 


<< 


true, no doubt ; she is a noble woman ; he will nevtf 

be half worthy of her, at his best, but He looki 

across at Leo, sitting, listlessly enough, in a garden-* 
chair, her hands lying idly on her lap, her mignonno 
face pale and spiritless ; the soft, black eyes heavy- 
lidded and tired-looking. The sweet, childish mouth 
has a pathetic little droop ; she looks sorry, or lonely, 
or something. He starts up impatiently, and goes off, 
angry with himself— his fate— all the world. 

And now the Lamars begin to talk of going — 
Geoffrey, indeed, has been impatiently talking of it, 
and thinking of it, for some time, but has been met by 
such a storm of reproach for his unseemly haste, that 
he has been forced to desist. But against his better 
judgment always, and now he will go. His work 
awaits him. Dr. Morgan writes sarcastically to inquire 
if he has fallen into a Rip Van Winkle slumber up 
there in his sylvan Sleepy Hollow. He is perfectly 
well again, no plea of invalidism can be put forth to 
detain him, and his resolution is taken. To-morrow 
he goes. His mother and sister can remain another 
week, if they choose, while he has the cottage put in 
order. They do choose, overwhelmed by the hospita- 
ble pressing of the Ventnors, and so it is decided. 

The last evening has come. Leo is away on one of 
her long rambles, and, for a wonder, Livingston is 
with her. It is the hour of sunset. Colonel Yentnor, 
his daughter, and Dr. Lamar linger on the lawn. The 
lovely after-glow, the exquisite rose-light of a perfect 
September day yet lingers in the sky ; a faintly salt 
breeze comes fresh from the ocean, and stirs the sleep 
ing flowers. On the piazza, at the other side of the 
house, the elder ladies sit, and after a little the colonel 


THE TIME OF ROSES. 


AAa 

•tOO 




f««lg called upon to join them. Then Geoffrey throwi 
himself on the dry, crisp grass, rather tired after a 
long day’s rambling, and Olga, with a smile, seats her* 
•elf on a grassy knoll close by. 

“ I know you are used up, if you would but own 
it,” she is saying. “ T am, and do not mind confessing 
it in the least. Ten miles is as much as I ever want 
to do at once. I fear it was hardly wise of you, not 
yet fully strong, to go as far as you did.” 

** You will insist on keeping me on the sick list,” 
he answers. “I believe I am as strong as I ever was 
in my life. I might have gone a week ago, with per 
feet safety. My walk will do me no harm. And it is 
for the last time.” 

There is a pause. His voice is regretful — it is hard 
to go. A little frown deepens between Miss Ventnor’s 
eyebrows. 

‘‘I hate last time,” she says, petulantly, “I hate 
saying good-by. Every year I live, every friend I part 
with, I hate it more and more. They are the two 
hardest, hatefulest words in the language. You must 
like it, though, you appear so desperately anxious to 
say it, and get rid of us.” 

He looks up at her. She is very lovely, but she is 
•Iways that. Her hat lies on her lap, her delicate face 
is ever so little flushed, ever so little petulant, her blue 
eyes have an almost irate sparkle. See is dressed in 
pale blue, crisp, silky, cool, a cluster of pink roses in 
her breast, another in her hair. She looks all azure 
and roses, golden hair, and flower face. He turns 
away his eyes, slightly dazzled. 

" Do you believe that,” he asks, quieuy, “ that 1 
am glad to go 


m 


** XHB TIME OF BOSES.” 

**Itl«oks like it, I confess. You have talked of 
nothing else but going ever since you came. And 
now you will leave us to-morrow, though the heavens 

fall.” 

“It would have been wiser if I had never come,” he 
says, still very quietly ; “ it would have been wiser for 
me if I had gone the moment I was able. I did not 
mean to say this, but, Olga, cannot you see — do you 
not know the reason ?” 

“ No, I do not,” she answers, still petulant, although 
the deepening flush on her cheek tells another story. 
“ I only know you are very perverse, and are longing 
to be off among your fever patients, and to catch it if 
possible over again yourself.” 

“Would you care if I did — would you care if 1 
did ?” he says, then quickly checks himself. “ No,” 
he says, “ do not answer that question. I had no right 
to ask it — I recall it, and beg your pardon. I did not 
mean to say this much, Olga, to say anything, but 
but having said it in spite of myself, let me say yet 
more. I love you, Olga, I love you with my whole 
heart.” 

There is a startling pause. Miss Ventnor catchcf 
her breath, but makes no other sign. 

“ Once I might have said this with something of a 
good grace,” Geoffrey goes on ; “ that day has gone 
by. I loved you even then, Olga. I can recall no time 
when T did not. But the deluge came — the whole 
world changed for me ; we parted, and I never thought 
to see you again. I did not forget you ; I never could. 
You were the one fair woman in all the world for me, 
but I never wished to meet you more. That way mad- 
ness lay. But who is stronger than his fate? Yo« 


370 “ THE TIME OF R08E8.^ 

came — we ham met, I am hei'c, I am at youi' feet, 1 
am saying this. My whole heart is yours — perhaps it 
is written in the book of fate that I am to tell you this. 
It is presumption, I know, but I know, too, you will 
not look on it in that light. We have been such old 
friends, Olga, that you will listen, and pity, and for- 
give.” 

Pity and forgive ! And he asks nothing but that 

“ I meant to go and say nothing,” — all this time he 
has hardly stirred from his recumbent position, hardly 
let a touch of the excitement that thrills him creep into 
his voice — it is the most passive-looking of love-making, 
and yet is full of repressed passion and fire. “ I meant to 
depart and make no sign. But my love is stronger 
than my judgment. And after all it can do no harm. 
You will forget, and I will take my dreams with me, 
and be the less miserable for knowing that you have 
heard and understood. If I were a richer man I would 
plead very differently. It is that I am so absolutely 
poor that gives me courage to speak at all. Despair, 
you know, is a free man — ^Hope is a coward. When 
we have nothing to hope for, we have nothing to fear. 
Say you forgive me, Olga, and are still my friend in 
spite of this.” 

“ I will say it,” she answers, with a great effort, 
‘‘ and if you wish — more.” 

He turns and looks at her, suiprise in his face, little 
else. Certainly there is no gleam of hope. He has 
settled it so completely with himself that it is impos* 
sible she can care for him, that it is not for one falter- 
ing reply to upset his theory. 

“ Olga !” he says. 

Her head is averted, her oheek is crimson, oer eyet 


HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BT. 


371 


are downcast, her fingers pluck nervously at the tufti 
of grass and wild flowers. 

“ Olga,” he says again, and this time there is a wild, 
incredulous flash of delight in his eyes. “ Olga 1” 

“ Oh,” she breaks out, brokenly, cannot you see ! 
Why will you force me to speak ? I will not speak !” 
with a flash from the great blue eyes. 

She rises suddenly to her feet, and scatters a shower 
of pink petals over her lover, and over the grass. 

“ Olga,” is all he can say, in his whirl of amazement, 
incredulity, of mad, new joy. 

There is a struggle. Then all at once she stoops, 
and, lightly as the touch of thistle-down, her lips rest 
on his forehead. 

“If you can leave me — now,” she says, flushed, 
frightened at her own temerity, breathless, laugh- 
ingly, ‘‘ go !” 

And, as she speaks, she turns, and swiftly as a fawn 
flios, is gone. 


CHAPTER XI. 



HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BY. 

THINK it is odd,” says Mrs. Abbott, lan- 
guidly, “and unlike Joanna. She never 
has whims. Why should she wish us to 
remain here, instead of going home, as 
we ought, to receive her ?” 

Another week has gone by — nine days, indeed — 
and Leo and her mother are still the guests of the 
Ventnors. Geoffrey has gone back to his cottage 
home, as per previous arrangement, to have it set m 


872 


HOW JOAimJl SAID GOCD-mr. 


order for them, and resume his labors. One day 
longer than he had intended he has staid, and both 
families have been electrified by the wonderful news. 
And yet not, perhaps, so very greatly. Colonel Vent- 
nor glances at his daughter, and slowly smiles. In all 
his life he has never contradicted his darling — he is 
hardly likely to begin now And he is not ambitious 
of adding wealth to wealth — she is, and will be always, 
sufliciently rich. As the heir of John Abbott, he cer- 
tainly never would have dreamed of objecting to young 
Lamar, with the best blood of the South in his veins. 
As a struggling young doctor he is not less worthy of 
her. He is no fortune-hunter, of that the colonel is 
well assured. And Olga loves him ; his proud and 
delicate darling, whose heart hitherto no man has been 
able to touch. He grasps Geoffrey’s hand with frank, 
soldierly warmth. 

“ There is no man living to whom I would sooner 
give her,” he sa3’^s, cordially, “ Fortune ? Ah, well, 
fortune is not everything, and fortune is to be won by 
the willing. You are of that number, I am sure. If 
I fancied her fortune had to do with it, do you think 
I would listen like this ? It is because I could stake 
my life on the truth of the lad I have known all hi« 
life, that I say yes so readily. Make her happy, Geof- 
frey— all is said in that.” 

Could anything be more delightful? Geoffrey 
finds the whole English language inadequate to his 
wanti?, in the way of thanks. Mrs. Ventnor is charmed 
—the son of her dearest friend is the one, above all 
others, she would have chosen for her son as weiL 

One thing only is a drawback- the story that must 
be told, the one bar sinister on the spotless Lamai 


HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BT. 


378 


ibield. But that cannot be told now ; not until Jo- 
anna returns and gives permission. Some hint of it 
he drops, necessarily obscure, before he goes. No plans 
are formed for the present — it is understood that Col- 
onel and Mrs. Ventnor will not agree to any long en- 
gagement. 

“ If you and Olga make up your mind to wait while 
you win your way,” he says, decisively, “ it must be 
without an engagement. I will not have her fettered 
while you plod slowly upward.” 

It is not likely, under these circumstances, they will 
make up their minds to wait. Geoffrey goes, and Olga 
is petted to her heart’s content. For Leo, she is in a 
seventh heaven of rapture, and for a day or two posi- 
tively forgets Frank. Another sister, and that one her 
darling Olga ! Surely, she is the most fortunate girl 
in the world. 

And now here is Joanna coming back, has come 
indeed, and is with Geoffrey already. “Wait until I 
join you,” is what she writes. “ I have something to 
say to you, my Leo, that I prefer to say there.” It is 
now late on Monday evening — to-morrow morning will 
bring her. 

To-morrow comes. Frank is at the station to 
meet her, looking worn and anxious, as he has grown 
of late. Latterly his misanthropy, as far as Leo is 
concerned, has grown upon him ; he distinctly avoids 
her. He is trying to be true, with all his might. If 
he could fly from danger, he would fly, but that is im- 
possible. So he stays on, and does the best he can, 
trying to think a great deal of Joanna and her perfeo- 
tions. Whether she agrees or not, he means to end 
this as soon as she returns, and let the world know of 


874 


HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD m. 


their relations to each other. He win not ask hei 
leave, he will assert himself, he will simply tell. Then 
Leo will understand. They will be quietly married, 
and go away at once. And little Leo will forget — she 
is such a child — and be happy with some happier man. 

The train stops, and a tall young lady, in a gray 
traveling suit, and pretty gray hat, alights. It is 
Joanna, looking well and bright, and almost handsome. 
She smiles and holds out her hand frankly at sight of 
him, but her manner is more that of a cordial friend 
than of the woman he is going to marry. 

“How well you are looking,” he says. “Your 
long journey seems to have given you added bloom^ 
Joanna. You are as fresh as any rose.” 

“It must be a yellow rose, then,” says Joanna, 
laughing, “ and pale saffron bloom. I am sorry I can- 
not return the compliment. Tbu are looking any- 
thing but well, Frank. You have not had a sun-stroke, 
I hope, this summer ?” 

She speaks lightly, but her glance is keen, and 
there is an under-current of meaning in her tone. He 
flushes slightly, and flecks the wheeler lightly with his 
whip. 

“ Something rather like it, I believe. But I shall 
rapidly grow convalescent now that you are back. I 
have — we all have — missed you, Joanna.” 

“ Thank you,” she says, gently. “ That is a good 
hearing, I like my friends to miss me. How are they 
ally— well ?” 

“ Quite well. No doubt you have heard the won- 
derful news. You saw Geoffrey ?” 

“ Yes, I saw him,” smiling, “ and really it was not 
•aoh wonderful news. I did not faint with surprise 


ANNA SAID JK)OD-BT. 


m 


when I heard it. But of course I am delighted, more 
than delighted. She will have the noblest husband in 
the world, and she is worthy of him. You are sure 
you feel no jealous pang, Frank ?” laughing. 

‘ Not one. I shall give my fair cousin my blessing 
on her wedding-day, with the soundest of hearts— 
where she is concerned. And your mother ?” he says, 
shifting skillfully from what he feels to be dangerous 
ground. “You have brought her back safe and 
well?” 

“ Safe and well, thank Heaven — almost as well in 
mind as in body. She might have left years ago, poor 
darling, if there had been any one to take her. Ah ! 
Frank, I feel that my whole life will not suffice to re- 
pay her for what she has suffered. And do you know, 
she accepted me in a moment as her child, seemed to 
know me, if such a thing could be possible, and came 
with me so gladly. She can hardly bear me a moment 
out of her sight.” 

“ You should have brought her down with you. It 
is unfair to leave her even for a few days now.” 

“ A few days ! My dear Frank, I return by to- 
night’s train. Meantime she is with the Professor and 
Madame Ericson. I have not come to stay. I have 
come” — her face grows grave — “on very important 
business, and part of it is with you. I must see Leo 
first.” 

He is stricken dumb. Their names in this conjunc- 
tion I He grows quite white as he leans forward to 
look at her. 

“ Joanna, what do you mean ?” 

She lays her hand on his, kindly, gently, but vory 
firmly. 


376 


HOW JOANNA SAID OOCD-BT. 


" Kot now, Frank — later. I must first see Leo. I 
want her to go with me to Abbott Wood this moia- 
ing. I have a fancy for saying what I have to say in 
the dear, beautiful old house that she loves so well^ 
and where she — they all — were so good to Joanna. 
Mrs. Hill will give us lunch there. I shall not return 
to Ventnor Villa ; and if, when Leo goes back, you 
will come in her stead, I will say good-by to you as 
well.” 

She is smiling, but her eyes look dark and sad. He 
sets his lips — even they are pale. 

“ Good-by ! Joanna, what are you saying ? There 
is to be no good-by between us any more. You are 
mine ; I claim you. I am going to announce our 
engagement. It is useless for you to object. I am.” 

‘‘Ah, well!” she says, wearily, “wait — wait until 
this afternoon, at least. I am a little tired now, and 
— and dispirited, I think. I do not want to talk of it. 
Do you know,” brightening suddenly, and smiling, “I 
met an old friend, by purest chance, in the streets of 
San Francisco. It was so good to see him, although I 
had every reason to be ashamed. I wcis ashamed too,” 
she laughs, and colors a little. 

“ Who ?” Frank asks. 

“ George Blake — poor George ! So improved, so 
brown, so manly-looking, and so prosperous. He is 
editor and proprietor of a daily out there, and doing 
well. I recognized him in a moment, but he did not 
know me. I stopped him, however, and made myself 
known — made my peace with him too, I am happy to 
fay. What a wretch I was in those days ! I look 
back now and wonder if ‘ I be I ?’ You never saw any 
one so glad as be was to meet me, and as for all th# 


HOW JOANNA SAID OOOD BT. 9TT 

good-natured things be said about my changed appear- 
ance, and so on — but you would think me frightfully 
conceited if I repeated the half. What is to the point 
is, that he has forgiven me, and forgotten me, so far 
as his old fancy is concerned. He is engaged to be 
married, and to quite a rich young lady. Is not all 
that pleasant news ?” 

But Livingston is not very deeply interested in 
George Blake, or his successes, editorial or matrimonial. 
He is filled with disquiet by Joanna’s manner ; he fears 
he knows not what. She laughs and talks lightly 
enough, but underneath it all he sees a resolute pur- 
pose, and he has learned to fear her inflexible resolu- 
tions. Why should she so connect his name with 
Leo’s ? what does she suspect ? He has striven hard 
to be loyal and true, but those deep dark eyes are eyes 
not easily deceived. The drive is not a long one, but 
silence has fallen long before they reach the house. 

Joanna is met, is welcomed by the Ventnors with 
flattering warmth, is embraced by Leo and her mother 
with effusion, and finally has a private interview with 
the latter lady. It is not a long one, but Mrs. Abbott 
is very pale and grave when it is over, and there are 
traces of recent tears. 

‘‘ It is like you, Joanna I” is what she says ; “ I can 
say nothing more than that. You are generosity itself. 
I can only echo Geoffrey’s words, and leave the decis- 
ion to Leo, unbiased. She is a child in most things, 
but in this she must judge for herself. You are her 
sister, and your wishes should have weight. Tell her, 
and it shall be as she says.” 

‘‘I have no fear then,” Joanna says, gayly. “Lea 
baa common sense, if she is a child, and is free from 


878 


HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD.BT. 


fine-drawn notions and wicked pride. Leo, dear, me 
and put on your hat. I will drive you over to Abbott 
Wood, if Miss Ventnor will trust her ponies to my 
care. I am quite a skilled charioteer, I assure you.” 

“To Abbott Wood?” Leo says, opening wide the 
velvet black eyes. 

“ Yes, dear ; and we will lunch there together. 
Quite like old times — will it not be ? Do not be a 
minute. I will say good-by to the others while you 
are gone.” 

“ Good-by ?” cries Leo, with dismay ; but Joanna 
has left her, and is already explaining the necessity 
for her return that very night. She cannot leave her 
mother, who pines and frets in her absence. So she 
says farewell there and then, to Mrs. Abbott as well 
as the rest. 

“We go south very shortly,” Joanna says, “and 
will pass the winter in Florida. Next spring, when 
we return, of course my first visit will be here.” 

Frank is there as well as the rest, but to him she 
does not hold out her hand. 

“ Come and fetch Leo back this afternoon,” she 
says. “ I can make my adieux to you then.” 

She and Leo depart, and Livingston quits the 
family group, and is seen no more by any member of 
the household. It is a day he will not easily forget ; 
the suspense, the dread, the pain he feels, grave them- 
selves on his memory, making this a day apart from 
all other days in his life. 

Meantime the ponies prance along and speedily do 
the five miles between Ventnor Villa and Abbott 
Wood. It is a perfect day — sunny, cloudless, breesy. 
#ith the odor of the sea in the crisp air, and Abbott 


HOW JOANKA gAIH OOOIVBT. 


179 


Wood looking more like an ancestral park and baro 
Dial hall than ever. They sweep up the noble drive 
and alight in front of the house. Great urns glow 
filled with tropical plants ; the flower-beds blaze in 
their autumn glory ; the deer look at them with wild, 
§hy eyes ; fountains tinkle and plash — all is in perfect 
order. So is the house in as exquisite keeping as when 
its mistress reigned there. Leo’s eyes light as they 
drink in all this beauty. She laughs a little, then 
•ighs. 

“ It is so lovely,” she says — “ the dear, dear old 
home ! Go where I will I see nothing like it !” 

“You love it, then ?” Joanna quietly asks. 

“ Love it !” Leo repeats. Her eyes flash, her lips 
part, then she stops. She must not seem too fond of 
it now, she remembers, lest Joanna thinks her envious. 
“ Of course I am fond of it,” she says. “ I was born 
here, and every tree, and every flower, and bird seem 
like old friends. But it will always seem like home to 
me, now that it is yours. If it had gone to a stranger 
I think it would almost have broken my heart.” 

“Dear little loving heart 1” Joanna interposes with 
a smile. 

“ But it is yours, and you are my own precious 
sister,” goes on Leo, gayly, “ and I shall expect you 
to invite me here often. You are not to forget your 
poor relations, you know. Mile. Fifty Millions !” 

Joanna pauses, and looks down upon her. Shs 
lays both hands on her shoulders and smiles down inte 
her eyes. Very sweet, and youthful, and fair is little 
Leo, with her pretty upturned face, and large lumi 
nous Southern eyes. 

“It must be the other way,” she says “Yen 


^ now JOAITNA SAID OOOD-BT. 

mast invite mt here, little Leo — for Abbott Wood k 
yonrs.” 

" Mine !” The dark eyee open wide, and stare. 

“ Yes, my darling — yours and yours only. From 
this day you are the little chatelaine of Abbott Wood, 
Do you think I would keep your birthright — the 
house where you were born ? the place you love so 
dearly, where you were so good — so good — to me? 
Ah, no ! I never thought of that. I meant to restore 
it to you from the first. You are my sister, my 
father’s daughter. It was for you he intended it, and 
yours it shall be. Do not look at me with such won- 
der-stricken eyes. Could you think so badly of me as 
to dream I would keep it ? I would not live here if I 

could. There are reasons ” she stops for a 

moment. ‘‘ No, little Leo, it is yours, all the processes 
of law have been duly fulfilled. It is yours by free 
deed of gift, and with it half the fortune our father 
left. What should I do with so much money ? Even 
half is the embarrassment of riches. I can never 
spend my income. It was for this I stopped on my 
way here, to speak to Geoffrey. I knew you would 
do nothing without his consent. He would have no 
voice in the matter, he left it entirely to you. It was 
to tell your mother, I saw her alone this morning — 
she, too, leaves it altogether to you. But jT do net 
— you must accept. There is no compulsion, you 
know, Leo, dear,” says Joanna, laughing and kissing 
her, "only you must! And although you cannot 
live here alone, and though neither your mother nor 
brother will ever live here with you, I foresee Abbott 
Wood will not be long without a mistress. I foresee,” 
goes on Joanna, her hands still on Leo’s shoulders, her 


HOW JOAKKA Said GtOOD Bt, 


m 

Jmiiing eyea still on Lee's face, ‘‘ that you will sooa 
reign here, and not alone, and I hope — oh, my little 
f^o, with all my heart I hope you may be very, very 
happy !” 

Her voice breaks. Leo flings her arms about her 
and hides her face on her breast. She is sobbing, 
whether with joy, with love, with gratitude, or with 
pain, she hardly knows. 

Happy I Ah, if Joanna only knew how unhappy 
she is I 

“ I — I don’t know what to say,” she sobs, wildly. 

I never thought of this. It is like robbing you, 
Joanna. Oh, I don’t know what to do. I ought not to 
take this — it is your house — I cannot bear to take it 
from you.” 

‘‘ Luckily you have no choice. It is yours in spite 
of you ! If you refused it would only be left to the 
rats and Mrs. Hill for the term of their natural lives. 
But you will not refuse, and one day all my predic- 
tions will come true. Oh, never look so despondent — 
trust me, Joanna is among the prophets. And now, 
wipe those pretty eyes, and let us consider the matter 
gettled, and at an end forever. No more thanks, or 
tears, or scenes — they make me almost as uncomfor- 
table as if I were a man. It is luncheon hour, and 
here I protest is Frank Livingston coming up the 
avenue. Leo, before he comes, I want you to tell him 
all about this to-morrow — I mean my story, relation- 
ship to you, and so on. Geoffrey has to tell Colonel 
V'entnor, of course; I have given him permission. And 
frith that we will let it drop, the world will never 
know. I shall take my rightful name — Bennett — and 
you will keep yours until you exchange it for——” 


HOW JOAKNA SAID OOOD-BT. 


** Mr. Livingston,” says Mrs. Hill, suddenly usher* 
iflg him in. 

Joanna looks at Leo and laughs, and Leo blusbei 
to the temples, as both go forward to greet hiu. 

They take their midday refection together, and try 
lo talk easily, but both appetite and conversation are 
failures. Everything Mrs. Hill can do to tempt them 
she has done, but no one is at ease. Joanna looks calm, 
and in spite of everything, is perhaps a trifle amused 
by the marked avoidance of her two guests. She reads 
it all so plainly, and if there is any pain at her own 
heart, she resolutely puts it away. She has made up 
her mind to the inevitable, and to look back and weep 
for what is forever gone is not her way. 

After luncheon they wander about the grounds for 
awhile ; then Leo is summoned away by Mrs. Hill to 
•ee some of her former pets, and Joanna and Frank 
stroll back to the house. The afternoon has worn on 
— the sun is declining ; Joanna looks at her watch as 
they stand side by side at one of the windows com 
manding a wide view of the sparkling sunset sea. 

“ Five,” she says ; “ my train goes at seven. Two 
good hours yet. We will have time for some tea pres- 
ently — a sort of stiri-up-cup to speed my departure.” 

“Joanna!” Livingston breaks out, “this must end. 
You torture me — cannot you see that ? You are like 
ice — like stone — you care nothing for me at all. How 
coolly you talk of going — of leaving me for an indefi* 
nite period. Do you forget you are my promised wife ?” 

“I have a good memory,” Joanna says, “but I a» 
suredly do not remember that. I have never promised 
you anything in my life.” 

“ H^vo you not f* he demands. “ What is it, ther 1 


HOW JOANNA SAID GOOD-BT. 


Have I not asked you to marry me ? Do you not wear 
my ring ” 

She bolds out both hands — ringless. 

“ As my hands, so my heart — free. Yes, you have 
asked me, and I — I have said nothing, only this one 
word from first to last — wait. You have waited — 
well, your waiting is at an end. That is why I wished 
to see you here — to say that. If you ever asked me 
to marry you, ever made me any promise, ever held 
yourself bound to me, I give it all back. You too are 
free.” 

He cannot speak. He stands looking at her, so 
pale, so conscience-stricken, that she lays her hand 
lightly for a moment on his. 

** Do not blame yourself too much,” she says, kind- 
ly ; “ do not blame yourself at all. Indeed, you de- 
serve none. You have tried — do you think I have not 
seen ? — and failed. That has been no fault of yours 
You never loved me, Frank — no, not for one poor mo- 
ment. You thought so that night you were ‘ Carried 
by Storm ’ — do you recall your own words ? They ex- 
pressed it exactly ; but love me — never ! Trust a 
woman to know when she is beloved. Excitement, a 
moment’s impulse, carried you away — when you had 
time to think, you repented. You would not own it 
even to yourself — all the same it was there. You did 
youi best, your very best, to be faithful, b it there are 
things that are spoiled by trying. Love is one of them. 
And you know I never could accept that. In the com- 
mon acceptation of the term I am not proud, but I am 
far too proud to accept a husband after such fashion 
as that. If I cannot be beloved, I will go to my grave 
mmiarried. And I am quite sure that so I will go. 


S84 flow JOAiriTA SAID GOOD-BY. 

And now, Frank, you are free — free as the wind th&t 
blows, and we are friends, good friends, once again 
and forever.” 

She holds ou-o her hand, out lie does not see it. 
He has turned from her, and is pacing to and fro, 
bitterness on his face, in his heart. Inconsistently 
enough, the keenest sense of loss he has ever felt ii 
ur.on him in this hour. 

“You never cared for me — it is easy for you to say 
all this,” he says, bitterness in his tone as well. 

She smiles slightly, and turns away, and looks far 
off at the golden afternoon haze over the sea. Weak 
and unstable he is, and she knows him to be, but he 
has power to bring a sharp contraction to her heart 
Btill. 

“ Never cared for you f” she repeats, dreamily. 
“ Frank, come here — do not be angry ; let us talk as 
friends. Yes, I cared for you. When I was a little 
child, a little, beaten, barefoot child, I cared for you. 
When you used to come to Sleaford’s, you were in my 
eyes as some beautiful and glorified young prince.” 
She laughs as she says it, but with a tremor in the clear 
voice. “ I fell in love with you even then. You never 
saw me, you know, in those days, and what wonder ? 
I thought Lora Sleaford the most enviable creature in 
the world, because you seemed to like her ; I hated 
trour cousin because you seemed so fond of her. In 
ftfter years, when we used to meet here, I believe, with- 
lut knowing it, I was wildly jealous of Olga, of Leo, 
rf every pretty girl who came near you. And when I 
away with George Blake, do you know what kept 
from marrying him ? Simply because I saw you — 
passed hrough the hotel hall, and out into the 


HOW JOANNA SAID OOOI>-BY. 


B86 


Street, a^nd I could not. I ran away. I oared for yon 
then, did I not ? And since, when we met, and you 
knew me, I was glad — ah, glad, glad , and when I 
thought you were beginning to care for me, I seemed 
not to have a wish left in all the world. I wonder why 
I tell you ail this? I ought not, I know, but it hurts 
me when you say it is easy for me to give you i.p. It 
is not easy — it is only right. And when that night you 
asked me, I was glad — ah, gladder than you will ever 
know. Only for a little ; before an hour was over I 
feared — when to-morrow came I knew. And from that 
time I never meant to hold you to your word. I care 
for you so much, Frank, my friend, my brother, that I 
give you up. We would never be happy. You would 
repent, and I would see it, and it would break my 
heart. Indeed it would, if I were your wife, and I 
;)Fefer an unbroken heart. I feel this farewell now — 
80, perhaps, do you, in a different way, but it will not 
hurt either of us, I hope, very badly. But you believe 
me, Frank, that it is because I have cared for you, and 
do, that I give you up ?” 

She holds out her hand again. This time he takes 
It in both his. He cannot speak ; what is there to 
say ? It is the saddest, gentlest, humblest moment of 
his life. Her face, too, is sad ; her eyes wdstful, her 
gaze still lingers on that fading light upon the sea, 

“ And when we have parted,” Joanna goes on, after 
that pause, “and you meet some one you really love, 
and w^hoiji you know loves you, remember you are to 
let no foolish scruple about all this hold you back, or 
mar the happiness of that other. And if,” slowly, “ it 
U any one for whom I care, the obligations will be 
more binding still. If you feel you owe me anything, 
17 


388 


now jojlnna said gooo-by. 


repay it in that way. I will understand and rejoioei 
To-morrow there are things Leo will tell you. Why 
do you start ? Leo is not an alarming personage — 
things you ought to know, and which I prefer you 
should hear first from her. And now I am tired talk- 
ing, and here come Leo and Mrs. Hill. Perhaps we 
can have that tea. It is time, for I am thirsty, and 
must soon be off. Can we not have tea out under ths 
trees, Mrs. Hill P It is so delicious here in sight of 
the sea.” 

So they have tea, and the repast is even more silent 
than the luncheon, llie two young ladies do their 
best, but Livingston simply cannot talk. His heart u 
full, and in it there is little room for any bu^ Joanni. 
just now. Then it is over. Joanna looks at her watcl 
again. 

** Half-past six. I want to say good-by here, am 
see you two off before I depart myself. Mrs. Hill 
please have them bring the buggy round to take me ti 
the station. Leo — Frank I” 

And then the supreme moment has come, and Leo’i 
arms are around her, and Leo is sobbing on her breast 
She holds out both hands to Livingston, with tears ii 
the brave, bright eyes. 

** Take her away ” she says, in a stifled voice ; “ > 
cannot bear it. Be good to her, Frank. God bl^s. 
you both I” 

And then, somehow, she is alone, and they are gone 
and a last burst of yellow sunshine takes them, ant 
they are lost to view. 

She sits down and covers her face, with a long 
hard breath. Some oft-quoted lines come into hei 
head, and keep echoing there, and will not be exorcised, 


WJ£J>DINQ BELLS 


after the fashion of such things. * So tired, so tired, 
my heart and I V* She is conscious of feeling tired, 
old, cold, worn-out. She sits, a long time, it seems to 
her — ten minutes by Mrs. Hill’s count — and then that 
portly matron returns, and says the carriage is waiting. 

Joanna rises at once. She is pale, and her eyes are 
wet, but that is natural enough. She says good-by to 
Mrs. Hill, and slips largesse into her palm, and goes. 
And all the way to the station, and all the way back 
to New York, as the train thunders over the iron road, 
it keeps monotonously beating out the refrain, “ Sc 
tired, so tired, my heart and L” 


CHAPTER Xn. 


WEDDING BBLLB. 



ARLT that autnmn there is a fashionable 
wedding in New York, and the beautiful 
heiress. Miss Olga Ventnor, is the bride. 
The bridegroom, personally, is unknown to 
fame • but the dear “ five hundred ” can see for them- 
selves that he is a very stately and distinguished-look- 
ing gentleman, and this goes far to condone his ob- 
scurity. His name, too, tells for him, one of the fine 
old names of the South — “fine old family, my dear, 
impoverished as so many fine old families have been, by 
the recent war,' etc. That the bride, in white satin 
and point lace, and orange blossoms, and diamond 
stars, looks lovely, you know before I tell you. That 
the wedding presents are numerous and splendid, the 
wedding breakfast a triumph of ouhnary art ; that 


888 


WEDDING BKLIiS. 


the spoeoli of the bridegroom is notable among siam^ 
mcring bridal speeches — are not these things written 
in the chi'onicles of the books of Jenkins — have you 
not read it all in the daily papers, and shall I bore you 
with a twice-told tale ? ‘‘ Immediately after the break- 
fast the happy pair departed for Europe,” etc., etc. 

Tims far Olga and Geoffrey. Mrs. Abbott and Leo 
go back to their suburban retreat, their birds, their 
books, their piano, their quiet life. Abbott Wood 
knows no change — Mrs. Hill still reigns supreme. Jo- 
anna is right in her prediction that Leo’s mother will 
never again dwell within its walls. 

“ All houses wherein men have lived and died are 
haunted houses.” 

Abbott Wood is to her a haunted house, haunted by 
terrible memories and a dreadful death. 

For Frank Livingston, he goes to New York, sets 
up his easel and atelier, and goes to work with an en- 
ergy and will that astonish his friends. His lazy in- 
souciance is gone — he is a holiday artist, playing at 
picture-making, no more. What is given him to do^ 
ne does with all his might. It is no great things, per- 
haps — he is lo embryo Raphael or Dore — but his best 
be does. And ho has a fair success. He paints a pic- 
ture that winter that is exhibited, and criticised, and a 
good deal talked about. Belter, a very rich man, and 
a patron of native talent, buys it at a fancy price. It 
is a twilight scene — some bare brown fields, a dreary 
expanse of arid marsh, a gray frowning sky, a chill 
wind. You can fed the chill rustling of ti e reeds and 
sedge grass, a broken rail fence, and a barefoot girl 
leaning upon it. Her wila hair blows in the wind, her 
face is wan and unohildlike ; her eyes, fixed on the far 


WEDDING BELLS. 


‘^9 

off sky line, have a mournful, appealing, dog-like look 
It is called “ Heart Hungry.” 

It is Joanna, of course, as he has often seen her, iii 
the days when he thought of her so little. He think* 
of her now, almost more than of any one else, with 
mingled affection, admiration, and remorse. How 
noble she is, how generous, how great of heart ! He 
feels that he could never have made he>* happy ; her 
nature is too noble for his. As man and wife they 
would have jarred. It is better as it is. All he can 
do is to try by constant hard work to approach ever 
so little nearer her level. He paints other pictures, 
and they sell. He is fairly successful, and each new 
success spurs him on to still further endeavors. 

Of Leo he sees nothing ; in those busy days he 
has little time for visits, and besides — well, besides 
there is a long future for all that. 

Spring comes — May, June. 

With the end of Jane returns the wedded pair, 
looking happy and handsome, and absorbed in each 
other, of course. Almost immediately they go to 
Brightbrook. The Ventnors are to follow in a couple 
of weeks, and Mrs. Abbott and Leo have promised to 
spend the holidays with them. Mrs. Abbott is dying 
for her son, Mrs. Ventnor for her daughter. So once 
more they are all to be reunited, the happiest household 
in the world. 

It is Frank Livingston who drives Olga down to 
the station to meet the expected guests. The coior 
Pushes into little Leo’s face at sight of him — it is a 
furprise — nothing has been said of his coming. 

“ And indeed he did not want to come,” says, se- 
verely, Mrs. Dr. Lamar. She makes the most charm- 


890 


WEDDING BELLS. 


ing and radiant of young matrons. We had almost 
to tear him by force from his beloved stuaiv. You 
may see for yourself how badly he is looking — quite 
tld and ugly. And he used to be fairly good-looking 
— now, used he not, little Leo ?” 

And of course at this malicious h.me-thrust poor 
little Leo is overwhelmed with confusion, and wishes 
the carriage would open and swallow hew. Frank 
laughs lazily. He is looking rather thin, but perfectly 
well in all other respects. And there is an expression 
of manliness, of gravity, of determination on his hand- 
some face, which is new and extremely becoming. 

“ His latest work of art,” says Olga Lamar, on the 
back seat, to Leo, ‘‘ is — ^guess what ? A picture of yoiL, 
It is painted from memory, and the commission is mine 
— as you looked in your bridemaid dress, dear — I never 
saw you look so pretty as you did that day. What a 
trick the child has of blushing 1 He has brought it 
down with him, and will finish it here. It is for ray 
particular sitting-room. Do you know, we are going 
to live in Brightbrook, and Geoffrey will actually prac- 
tice in the village. They want a doctor, and he wants 
work. Of course we will go to New York in winter, 
but to all intents and purposes the villa will be home. 
Home! Is it not a sweet word? We are enlarging 
and improving it, in a number of ways. And we are 
going to settle down into the most humdrum Darby 
and Joan life you can imagine. And speaking of Joan, 
reminds me of Joanna — dear Joanna ! Geoffrey had 
a letter from her last night, and oh, Leo ! she will not 
come. Says she is going to England for the summer ; 
her mother wishes to visit her native land once mora 
Is it not too bad ? And I counted so oonfidentl;v on 


WRODrWO BRLLa 


891 


her spending July and August with ug. But so A ever 
is. I would have my life-pictures like Queen Eliza- 
beth’s portrait, without shadow, and it cannot be. Jo- 
anna is the gray background this time, and yes — the 
fact that Abbott Wood is still without a mistress. But 
yet — I live in hope !” 

She runs on gayly, and laughs down in Leo’s som- 
ber soft eyes. She is so radiantly happy — this fair Prin- 
cess Olga, in her new life, that she seems to have re- 
ceived a fresh baptism of brightness and beauty. 

Next morning the famous picture is displayed — a 
soft-eyed, sweet-faced girl in white silk and laces, with 
white flowers in her dusky hair. In the shy, wide-open, 
wondering-looking eyes, there is an unconscious touch 
of pathos. 

‘‘ Is it not charming ?” Olga cries ; “ and do you 
not fall in love with yourself, little I^eo, only to look 
at it ? I do. And what have you got that pleading 
look in your eyes for, and why do you seem as if you 
were waiting for something or — somebody ? Perhaps 
the artist knows. Did she look like that on my wei- 
ding-day, Frank ? As groomsman, you ought to know. 
How do you like yourself, Leo ?” 

“ It is much too pretty,” Leo answers, blushing, of 
course ; ** it is dreadfully flattered. But I like to be 
flattered — in that way, I think.” 

*^Tou do not really think it is flattered ?” Living- 
ston says, a few minutes later. 

He is adding some finishing touches to the like- 
ness, and has asked her to remain. The others have 
moved away — they are alone, with only the summer 
wind swinging the roses outside the window, the bees 
booming, and the birds clirping in the treert. 


WEDDING BELLS. 


“Indeed I do — grossly. And that expression — 1 
am sure I never looked like that,” with a little pout 
“ so sentimental, and lackadaisical, and all that.” 

“Is it lackadaisical?” says the artist, laughing 
“Then I think I like lackadaisical looks. But you 
really did wear just that pathetic expression. It waa 
a sentimental occasion, you know — and, for the matter 
of that, you often have that waiting, wistful look. 
It becomes great, dark, Syrian eyes, I think. Do you 
know you, have real Oriental eyes, Leo — long, almoin? 
shaped, velvet-black.” 

“I think I must look like a Chinese,*^ remarks Leo, 
resignedly. “ They have almond eyes, have they 
not ?” But while she laughs she tingles to her finger- 
ends with delight. 

“ You look like what you are, the fairest, dearest 
darling in all the world I Leo !” — he throws down 
brush and maul-stick, and takes both her hands, with 
a sudden impulse that flushes his blond face and fires 
his blue eyes — “ don’t you know — I love you !” 

“ Oh !” says Leo, with a sort of gasp, and tries to 
draw her hands away. She turns pale now, instead 
of red, it is so sudden, and — somehow he looks sc 
overwhelming. 

“ Have 1 startled you ? Dear little Loo ! You wer# 
always easily startled, I remember. I do not know 
that I meant to speak this morning, but the love we 
hide so long all in a moment breaks its bounds and 
overflows. I love you I You are not angry that I 
say this?” 

“ No,” Leo says, and laughs nervously ; “ only 
curious. To bow many more have you sail it, 1 
wonder?” 


WEDDING BELLS. 


39S 


She hits the truth so nearly that he winces; thee 
he, too, laughs a little. 

“Yes, I have said it to others, but I do not think 1 
ever meant it until to-day. I have deceived myself 
before, and taken passing fancies for love ; that is one 
reason why I have waited so long before speaking to 
you. It no passing fancy now — I love you I I have 
little to offer, but at least I have enough to put me 
beyond the suspicion of fortune-hunting. What I 
have I lay at your feet, with my heart, my life. Will 
you take them, Leo ?” 

And Leo’s answer ? Well, it is not in very coherent 
words, but it is very intelligible. One look of the soft, 
shy eyes, one droop of the blushing face, and then 
that face is hidden on Mr. Livingston’s velvet paint- 
ing-blouse, and broken murmurs issue from Mr. Liv- 
ingston’s raustached lips, of which “ My darling 1 ray 
love ! my Leo !” are the only distinct articulations the 
listening robins and bluebirds can catch. 

And there is another wedding in September, an- 
other fair bride is given away, another young man 
looks nonsensically happy, another bridal breakfast is 
eaten, another wedding trip is taken. And Abbott 
Wood, under the superintendence of Dr. Lamar ex- 
teriorly, and Mrs. Dr. Lamar interiorly, is to be put 
in apple-pie order for the home-coming and house- 
warming that are to follow, and the stately mansion is 
to have its mistress at last. Joanna’s prediction i# 
verified — Leo will live there, and not alone. 

For Joanna — well, letters come from England with 
cheerful regularity, and they breathe all good wishes 
for the happiness of the newly- wedded pair. She is 
well, and her mothe- improves quite wonderfully is 


894 


WEDDING BELLft. 


body and mind. She expresses no regrets at not being; 
able to be present at the marriage, but she promises tc 
come and spend Christmas with them at Brightbrook. 
Her plans for her own future are formed and settled * 
her mother wishes to reside permanently in England 
and Joanna lives but to accede to her wishes. She has 
bought a pretty place there, she writes, and calls it 
Brightbrook, and so, after all, an English Brightbrook 
will be her future home. 

So writes Joanna. But, as it chances, Joanna is 
not Madame Olga’s only English correspondent, and it 
is about this time that the following letter arrives 
from the Lady Hilda Stafford : 

‘‘ IMy Dearest Olga : — Your last was charming. 
How vividly you picture your fair Brightbrook home i 
How I long to see it, and Dr. Lamar, and you 1 But, 
delightful as your Brightbrook may be, it can hardly 
equal ours^ I fancy, and even you do not know how to 
be more bewitching than Miss Bennett. We owe you 
u debt of gratitude for your letters of introduction to 
us, more particularly as she has made up her mind to 
settle among us ‘ for good.’ She has purchased an ex- 
quisite place here, and named it Brightbrook, as you 
know, and the neighborhood is enchanted with its 
American acquisition. What a voice she has I and 
what a pair of eyes ! I fell in love with her at sight, 
and, I fancy, I am not the only one who has done so. 
You met Sir Roland Hardwicke, you know, while here. 
You have not forgotten him, I hope ; for if the fair, 
stately, siren-voiced Joanna does not end by becoming 
Lady Hardwicke, the fault will not be his. HU oaac 


\VEDDIMO BELLS. 


395 


was hopeless from the first, and he is a splendid fellow, 
and quite worthy even of so noble a heart as hers. He 
is every inch a soldier and a gentleman, owning a 
handsome face, a gallant figure, a long pedigree, and a 
longer rent-roll. Send your blessing and approval, for 
1 really think both will speedily be required.” 

Olga is delighted — Geoffrey smiles, and approves. 
Both remember Sir Roland Hardwicke very distinctly, 
a man whose favor any woman might be proud to win. 
But Joanna is not one to be easily won, too readily 
pleased, and the pedigree and rent-roll, of which Lady 
Hilda speaks, will not count for much with her. 

“I hope — oh, I do hope he may please her ! ” Olga 
cries, “ dear, generous Joanna ! If ever any one de- 
serves love and happiness, it is she. And, as his wife, 
I am sure she will have both. Lady Hardwicke ! to 
think of Joanna — Sleaford’s Joanna,” laughing, but 
with tears in the sapphire eyes, “ wearing a title at 
last I ” 

After that the letters from Lady Hilda are waited 
tor with feverish impatience. They come often, are 
long and satisfactory. Everything progresses well so 
far as she can see. She is not in Miss Bennett’s confi- 
dence, of course, but Sir Roland is a frequent — a very 
frequent visitor at Brightbrook, and people talk of it 
already as a settled thing. Every one loves her, she 
is the Lady Bountiful of the parish, and Lady Hard- 
wicke (Sir Roland’s mother) has graciously offered to 
present her at Court next season, which shows she ap- 
proves, etc., etc. 

Early in December Mr. and Mrs. Livingston 
return, and parties are giv^u. far and wide, in honof 


m 


ITEDDING BELLS. 


of the bride. And Frank has but ore s-^ioret in th« 
world from his little wife, and that one is the fact of 
his brief engagement to Joanna. Somehow he shrinks 
from telling that — it is the one memory eacred to him- 
self and his friend, that even his wife may not know. 
He feels instinctively that it would give her pain, that 
Joanna would not wish it, and so he hides it in his 
heart, as in a grave. 

Two days before Christmas Joanna comes. She 
finds a rare household assembled at Abbott Wood to 
meet and greet, and do her honor. Mrs. Abbott, 
Olga, and Geoffrey, Frank and Leo, of course. But 
there are others, whose presence is a cheering surprise 
— a surprise over which she laughs and cries together. 
The Professor and Madame Ericson are there ; there, 
too, is portly Mrs. Gibbs, rich and rare in black silk 
There is Thad, quite a slim and “genteel” young 
man, a little conceited and over-dressed, but what will 
you at nineteen ? There are the twins, Lonzo and 
Lizzy. There is Mrs. Hill ; and the Reverend Igna- 
tius Lamb ; and little Miss Rioe. There, in short, is 
every one Joanna cares for most in the world. Her 
mother is not with her, the wintry voyage was too 
much for her, but she is so thoroughly restored she 
can bear cheerfully to part with her treasure for two 
or three months. 

Olga looks at her keenly. Yes, Joanna is changed 
—the change that love, happy love, alone works, is in 
her radiant face. Looking down into Olga’s beauti- 
ful, questioning eyes, the quick blush and smile tell 
their tale. And the sapphire eyes flash with glad joy, 
and Olga’s arms clasp her close. 

“ Oh, Joanna I dearest Joanna, is it indeed so f m 


WEDDING BELLS. 


397 


Ijady Hilda says. And you love him, and are happy,” 
the whispers, in a fervent kiss. 

“ Happy I happy ! happy !” is Joanna’s reply, “ and 
C love him with all my heart.” 

“Such a great, brave, generous heart. Oh, my 
darling ! this only was needed to complete our bli;***. 
And when is it to be ?” 

“Next June, they tell me,” Joanna laughs. “In 
Mjiy, you know, I am to be presented at court, by — by 
his mother. And you and Geoffrey, and Frank and 
Leo are to come over for the wedding, which is to be 
a very grand affair indeed. Olga, I think I am the 
very happiest and most fortunate woman in all the 
universe !” 

There are tears in the dark earnest eyes. Olga 
gives her a last rapturous kiss. 

“Not one w'hit happier than you deserve — you 
could not be !” is her ultimatum, and like all imperial 
Olga’s decisions, it stands iincontradicted. 

« « « % 41 « 

It is New Year’s Eve. Christmas, with its joy 
bells, its good wishes, its good cheer, its happy faces, 
has come and gone, and the old year is dying to-night. 

“It brought me a friend, and a true, true love,” sings 
happy Leo, as she flits about the house. Fires burn, 
lights flash, warmth, music, feasting are within ; dark- 
ness, wind, cold, snow are without. The long drawing- 
rooms are fragrant with flowers, brilliant with lamps, 
gay with happy faces. There are only the family to- 
night, no outsiders, but they form a sufficiently large 
assembly. 

Near one of the windows Joanna stands, looking 
out at the fast-falling snow, listening to the wund 


898 


WEDDING BELLS. 


“ wuthering ” among the trees. She looks a fair and 
stately woman in her rich black velvet dress — tall, 
imposing, gracious. Her velvet robe suits the grand 
curves of her figure — it sweeps in soft, dark folds be- 
hind her on the carpet. The fine lace at her throat is 
caught by one large, gleaming diamond ; a knot of 
forget-me-nots is beneath it, another in her hair. 

“ You look a queen of ‘ noble Nature’s crowning,* 
Joanna,*’ says Livingston, approaching. “ I must 
paint you in that velvet dress, and these forget-me- 
nots. Do you know, you have been making a pic- 
ture of yourself for the past ten minutes, and that I 
have been lost in artistic admiration.” 

“ And that if it had lasted one millionth part of a 
second longer I should have been jealous,” laughs Leo, 
coming up ; and then there is a momentary pause. 
Livingston looks conscious. Joanna smiles down at the 
dark-eyed fairy in creamy silk and white roses. 

“ And do you know, what is more to the purpose 
than empty compliments,” says Mrs. GeoiBPrey Lamar, 
sailing forward in a cloud of rose pink, silky sheen, 
** that you never sing for us now. Lady Hardwicke — 
that is to be. You have grown very stingy about that 
lovely voice of yours since you have been in foreign 
parts. Come and chant us a New Year’s anthem, or 
an old year’s dirge, for it is almost on the witching 
stroke of twelve.” 

Joanna goes, and presently her full rich tones ring 
through the room, but the wind of the winter night 
itself is hardly sadder, wilder, than the strain she 
lings : 

“Toll, bells, within your airy heights! 

Wail, wind, o’er moor and mere I 


WEDDING BELLS. 


Otx this, the saddest of all aights. 

The last night of the year — 

The last long night, when lamps arc 
Like tapers round a bier ; 

When quiet folk at still heakrths sit, 

And God seems very near. 

The old clock strikes upon the stair, 

Time’s tide is at its turn ; 

And here, and there, and everywhere 
The New Year tapers burn. 

Strange, dreamy anthems fill the street, 

The mists hang o’er the river, 

The organ groans, the drums are beat. 

The Old Year’s gone forever I” 

Oh I Joanna, what a melancholy song!” oriei 
little Leo, reproachfully ; “ and to-night of all nights I 
You give me the heart-ache. Do sing something less 
dreary.” 

“ Hark !” says Geoffrey, raising his hand. All the 
clocks in the house chime out one after another — 
twelve. The bells in Brightbrook burst forth a joyous 
peal — the New Year has begun. Good wishes go 
round, they touch glasc’es in the German fashion, and 
drink to each other, and '*eyes look love to eyes that 
speak again.” ~And once more Joanna touches the 
keys. This time it is like a jubilant burst of joy : 

“ Swing, bells, a hundred happy ways 
Laugh, wind, o’er moor and mere! 

On this, the gladdest of all days. 

The first day of the year ! 

The first sweet day, when every one 
Is cheerful at his hearth ; 

The first pure day, when merry sun 
Lights up a merry earth. 

** Swing, bells, a hundred happy wayil 
Laugh, wind, o’er moor and marel 




this the gladdeet of' dafnA^ 

The first day of the year* 

The first sweet day, when wellcoata^ 

We gather round the iiearth; 

O God, we thank Thee, who has sent 
This New Year to our earth 1” 

“ What a grand creature she is !” Frank Livingstofe 
thinks, standing a little apart, looking and listening ; 
“ the noblest woman that walks the earth !” 

Hia little bride, never content for many minutes 
together to be away from him, comes up, and slips her 
hand through his arm with the old wistful, upward 
look. 

‘‘ Thinking of Joanna?” she says. “ Does she not 
sing deliciously, and does she not look lovely to-night f 
Frank, I wonder, rich, accomplished, handsome as she 
is, that yow never fell in love with her in the old days. 
I believe she never had even a passing fancy in all her 
life until she met this Sir Roland Hard wi eke. 
Joanna — Lady Hardwicke ! Can you realise it V* 

But Frank does not say a word. 










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